


This High, High Love That You Give to Me (Is All I’m Missing)

by nightcalling



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Multi, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Self-Worth Issues, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 20:16:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20452955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcalling/pseuds/nightcalling
Summary: Steve smiles. “I’m not looking for a date, just trying to rediscover a potential friend.”“I know,” Robin says, “but that doesn’t mean it can’t become something more.”*Or, Steve and Billy manage to fall into a love triangle with themselves.





	This High, High Love That You Give to Me (Is All I’m Missing)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a modern AU loosely based off of You’ve Got Mail, and I say loosely in every sense of the word. Apologies if other people have already written something similar, but I rewatched the movie on a plane recently and it stuck with me throughout my entire damn vacation. For all intents and purposes, let’s pretend Hargrove was Billy’s mom’s last name and not N*il’s because he deserves no rights, and also because I didn’t want to come up with a new last name for Billy. POV alternates between Steve and Billy throughout. There are also switches between past and present, with scenes from the past bookended by ~*~*~*~*~, hopefully the format will make sense after a bit!
> 
> Title is from Of Monsters and Men’s “Stuck in Gravity.” Any mistakes are mine.

It’s a Monday morning when Steve gets called into his father’s office on the sixty-fifth floor, the byline on the e-mail noting that it’s “urgent business.”

“We’re opening a new Harrington Sports in Malibu. I’m putting you in charge. Don’t disappoint.” Well, his father was always known to get straight to the point.

“Yes, sir,” Steve agrees, trying not to grimace.

His father nods curtly, then waves him out. As Steve takes the elevator back down to his lowly single-window office on the twentieth floor, he fumes knowing that this is his father’s way of testing him. He’ll have to get everything done perfectly—not successfully, _perfectly_—if he wants to prove himself. In other words, he really can’t fuck this up.

Being in business is honestly not Steve’s ideal career choice. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have any other skills to speak of, so every day, he puts on his suit and his act and pretends to be the douchebag that he tells himself he isn’t. It’s gotten him this far in life, so he figures it’s how he should keep living. People who meet him tend to want him for his money, anyway, so if he has to deal with shallow assholes all his life, it’s only fair that he gets to be a shallow asshole in return. Easier to filter out the jackasses who can dish it but can’t take it.

Still, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t find himself daydreaming of a different life from time to time, already on the edge of a mid-life crisis at twenty-five.

When Steve gets back to his office, he sits down in his chair, shakes the mouse, and wakes his computer from sleep mode. He’s not really sure where to start, opts for opening his e-mail again. There’s a new message from his father’s secretary with the schedule for the opening of the new store. Apparently, his father expects the ribbon-cutting to happen in six months.

Classic pops, never giving any guidance and simply throwing him in the deep end.

Steve sighs, closing the message. Malibu, huh? Could be worse. At least it’s not somewhere dreadful, like some shithole in Indiana, and he’ll get to fly down to California for the duration. He’s about to draft out a list of personnel to enlist for the project when his mind tugs on a distant memory.

_“I’m from Malibu. You?”_

_“New York native, definitely not as cool as people make it out to be.”_

_“Why’s that?”_

Steve racks his brain for the rest of the conversation, but he can’t for the life of him remember what came before or after. More importantly, who’s the person on the other side? Steve shuts his eyes, and when nothing comes for ten, fifteen minutes, he gets up to go to the break room. In the middle of adding cream to his coffee, he jerks his head up, hurriedly grabs a bear claw from the pantry, and rushes back to the office. He picks up his phone.

_S.O.S._, he types. He gets a response two seconds later.

> **ROBIN ALWAYS RIGHT 7:54 a.m.:** what up, dingus?

>_ Don’t laugh, but do you remember that guy I told you about?_

> **ROBIN ALWAYS RIGHT 7:56 a.m.: **uhhh you’re gonna have to be more specific than that

Steve is in the middle of responding when he gets a slew of notifications.

> **ROBIN ALWAYS RIGHT 8:01 a.m.: **WAIT you’ve only ever referred to one person as “that guy”

> **ROBIN ALWAYS RIGHT 8:01 a.m.: **is this about mysterious leather jacket guy???

> **ROBIN ALWAYS RIGHT 8:02 a.m.: **the guy that was apparently SO hot you ditched me the night we met????

Steve rolls his eyes, deletes his previous message, and starts over.

> _One, I didn’t ditch you, it was an accident, two, what’s with that nickname?_

> _But yes, this is about “Mysterious Leather Jacket Guy.”_

He taps his foot, waiting for a response. He has three names on his personnel list when he hears another ping.

> **ROBIN ALWAYS RIGHT 8:15 a.m.: **sorry some shithead nearly ran me over and didn’t apologize

> **ROBIN ALWAYS RIGHT 8:16 a.m.: **what about the guy? you suddenly remember his name or smth?

> _No, but the overlord is sending me down to Malibu and guess who’s from Malibu?_

> **ROBIN ALWAYS RIGHT 8:17 a.m.:** omg are you gonna try and find him??? fuck yeah steve didn’t know you had it in you!!!

Steve blushes, thankful that no one’s around to see it.

> _Jesus, no I’m not going to try and find him, how creepy is that? But there’s something I didn’t tell you…_

Before he can stop himself, he continues:

> _Wekindofexchangedemails_

His phone starts ringing.

“What the fuck?” is what Steve hears immediately upon picking up. “You’re only telling me this now? I thought we were friends!” Robin accuses loudly, traffic buzzing in the background.

“I didn’t tell you because it wasn’t a big deal and I knew you were going to make it a whole thing!” Steve defends.

“But…exchanging e-mails? What century do you two live in? This was only, like, five years ago, right?”

“Seven. And shut up, it’s a nice sentiment, okay?” _Old-fashioned, maybe, but nice_, Steve thinks, careful not to say it out loud. “It’s not like we’ve actually sent each other anything, so it doesn’t matter anyway.”

He can sense Robin stopping in her tracks. “Wait, now I’m confused. You’re saying you guys had each other’s e-mails all this time and _neither of you has done anything about it_? Jesus Christ.”

Steve pinches his nose. “Look, it was a great night, or memory, or whatever, _he_ was great, but we were both drunk out of our minds, okay? I don’t remember his name or what he looks like and I’m sure he doesn’t either. It’s fine.”

“Then why are you telling me this when you should be working?”

Steve pauses, tapping the pen he’s holding against the desk.

“Oh my god,” Robin whispers, “you’re thinking of sending one _now_.”

He hates it when Robin has epiphanies. “Yeah,” he admits. No turning back.

“Good. That’s exactly what you should do,” Robin says, no trace of sarcasm in her voice.

“What, no more quips about how romance-dumb I am?”

“Nah, Mysterious Leather Jacket Guy might not have a name or face attached to him, but he’s already a hundred times better than any other loser you’ve been interested in.”

Steve smiles. “I’m not looking for a date, just trying to rediscover a potential friend.”

“I know,” Robin says, “but that doesn’t mean it can’t become something more.”

“Okay, you’re done,” he tells her, hanging up.

“Keep me posted!” she yells before the line cuts off.

Steve sits there staring at his phone—_ROBIN ALWAYS RIGHT, call lasted 7:32 minutes_—and thinks about what he just promised. He logs on to his personal e-mail, the one that he uses to talk to Dustin and Robin and Nancy more extensively. Oh shit, Nancy. She’s going to have a ball over this.

Pushing that thought away for another day, he opens up a blank message and spends the next two hours drafting one e-mail to sevenfeethigh@gmail.com, unsure as to whether he’d prefer to receive a response or nothing at all.

~*~*~*~*~

Steve hates Albrecht Prep, hates the elitist assholes who strut the halls, hates the stupid burgundy and gold suit-and-tie uniform, hates the curfew and hates all of the professors who aren’t shy about stating that they’re better than babysitting a bunch of hormonal teenagers. He hates his father who dumped him here, clearly wanting to send him away but also not trusting him enough to leave New York. But mostly, Steve hates that he’s become part of it all, feeling like a fraud that fits right in with the fakers, doesn’t know how to come to terms with the fact that this is going to be his life.

On the eve of his eighteenth birthday, the day before his graduation, Steve decides to indulge in one last night of freedom before he becomes a cog in his father’s empire, forced to work for a company that’s bound to make him miserable. He scores some weed from this guy who he slips out to get high with whenever finance class gets too boring (which is really all of the time), doesn’t bother hiding the joint before putting on his best look, slipping through the back fence, and hitting the streets.

It’s about 10 or 11 p.m.—Steve’s not really sure, he’s way too stoned—when he stumbles into a bar, somehow managing to flash the guard his fake ID and make it to the counter without being thrown out. He’s one drink in when dirty blond hair catches his eye. She’s kinda cute.

“Hey there, you alone on this lovely night?” Steve gestures, waving at the stars spinning in front of his eyes, “because I can keep you company if you are.”

Cute girl smiles, either out of amusement or out of disgust. “Seriously, asshole? Here? How cliched can you get?”

Okay, so it was out of disgust. He can change that.

“That’s where you’re wrong, because I’m not cliched, I’m _smooth_,” Steve retorts, dialing up the charm and doing his best to slow down his blinking. It’s probably not attractive to blink that much, but the stars are really doing damage on his eyesight right now.

Cute girl raises her eyebrows. “Yeah, because it’s totally smooth to hit on a girl in a gay bar. Why don’t you fuck off to your frat buddies and leave me the hell alone?”

Before Steve can get a word out, cute girl squints and stares into his eyes. “Wait, are you high, dude?”

His mind is still latched onto _gay bar_. “What—what do you—um,” Steve starts, trying to stay alert. The stars spin faster and faster until, suddenly, there’s a thump. His back hurts. So does his head, for that matter. Is that blood?

“Shit, can someone help me here?” he hears the cute girl call out before the darkness takes him.

\---

Steve wakes up staring at his own reflection in a shot glass. “Ow,” he mumbles as he lifts his head, wincing when he moves too fast.

“Slow down, dingus, you hit your head on your way down to the floor.”

He turns around, hands coming up to touch the bandage on his temple. Cute girl is sitting next to him. The stars aren’t there anymore, so Steve gets a good look at the way she’s leaning against her seat, arms crossed and feet up on the counter.

“It was a pretty spectacular fall,” cute girl adds, smirk plastered on her face.

“Sorry about…earlier,” Steve makes himself say. “I, uh, didn’t realize…”

“Didn’t realize where you were? Yeah, I got that.”

Steve closes his eyes. This is mortifying. “Please don’t tell anyone, um…”

“Robin,” cute girl, no, Robin says.

“Thanks, Robin,” Steve nods, grateful.

“I know.” It sounds like an apology, which makes no sense considering Steve’s the one who made a total asshole out of himself.

Robin puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Listen, this is none of my business, but you kinda…said some things in your sleep that I couldn’t help overhearing while I was hauling your ass over here.”

Steve widens his eyes, heart pounding. “What sort of things?”

“Just stuff about your dad, how he sent you to that hellhole Albrecht and how he doesn’t know jack about you, including...” Robin trails off, gesturing around her. “You’re Steve Harrington, huh?”

Shit. He doesn’t know which of those things to tackle first. “Yep,” he says, feeling his hands begin to quiver.

Robin squeezes his shoulder. “I know how frustrating it is, having parents that don’t understand what you like.”

It’s clear from the way she says _what you like_ that she’s not just talking about boarding schools or career interests.

“Fuck,” Steve declares sincerely. “I’ve never—I’ve never told anyone.”

Robin smiles kindly. “And I’ll never tell anyone else.” Steve feels like crying out of relief.

“Hey,” she continues, smile turning into a wicked grin. “I know you’re just getting over a headache, but what do you say we get wasted in the name of pretty girls and boys?”

“That sounds awesome,” Steve says, knowing this friendship is for life.

~*~*~*~*~

It’s raining like crazy when Billy finally returns from the beach in the afternoon. He quickly strips out of his swim trunks and jumps into the shower, sighing when the warm water washes away the salt and sand. The kids made a lot of progress today, but they still can’t stay on their boards for more than five minutes. He’s going to have to change tactics.

After drying off and getting dressed, he wanders to the kitchenette, fixes up a salad and cuts a slice of bread from the loaf that Heather made using his mom’s old recipe. She was always better at making it than he was.

Billy settles down on the couch, bread in his mouth as he unlocks his phone. There’s a bunch of e-mail notifications from customers inquiring about the next available surfing lessons, when the new line of surfboards from so-and-so brand will be restocked, why don’t they offer international shipping on inventory, the usual.

He stops scrolling when he comes across a notification for his personal e-mail. He rarely receives e-mails there anymore, mostly communicates via text messaging, but when he does, it’s usually from Heather or Max forwarding him flyers for concerts. Not that he has the time to go to any of them, these days.

This handle most definitely does not belong to either Heather or Max. In fact, Billy doesn’t even recognize it.

He throws his phone on the table and opens up his laptop, deciding to respond to all of the work e-mails first. _Lessons are booked until next month, but you can subscribe to cancellation notifications_, _The new line should be in by next week, please contact us again then_, _Customs has given us trouble in the past, but we can come to an arrangement if necessary_, etc.

Thirty minutes later, Billy switches over to his personal account and narrows his eyes at the lone, new message sitting in his inbox. He nearly deletes it and reports it as spam when he abruptly stops, vaguely feeling like that would be the wrong thing to do. Where had he seen such a douchey handle before?

Instead of moving the message to the trash, he searches through his archive for past messages from the address and comes up with zero results. He sets his laptop down, eats his salad, then puts the bowl aside. Ultimately, his curiosity prevails over his self-control and he clicks on the message, praying it doesn’t send a virus through his computer.

**Hey**

homerunking <homerunking@outlook.com> to me:

_You probably don’t remember me, but we met a long time ago in New York. I know we never talked after that day, and it’s probably seven years too late to send this now, but I couldn’t help myself. I had a really unpleasant start to my Monday morning and a sudden memory of you was the only thing that kept me going. Do you like Mondays? I can’t imagine anyone does, but who knows, maybe you’re the exception. _

_Anyway, I just wanted to say hi. I’m not expecting anything back. In fact, you can delete this if you want, but I thought it was important to let you know that the day I met you is still one of the best days of my life. Even if I was completely drunk and shit-faced and don’t remember much of anything else._

_Is that cheesy? Sorry._

x

Billy reads and rereads the message once, twice, then a third time for good measure. Oh, shit. He slams his laptop shut.

\---

The next day, Billy shows Heather the e-mail before they open up the surf shop.

“Is this…?” Heather asks tentatively, eyes scanning over the screen.

“Yep,” he responds, popping the p.

“It’s really him? Cute Drunk Guy with the Hair?” Heather clarifies.

“Pretty sure.” He doesn’t know why that’s what they’ve decided to call the guy, but ever since Billy told Heather about the incident, the name’s stuck and they haven’t changed it since. He doesn’t recall much of that night, not how tall the guy is nor what his voice sounded like, but Billy guesses the guy was cute, and drunk, and had nice hair. To be fair, Billy was drunk himself, which is why these three completely unhelpful details are all he currently remembers, along with a distinct memory of longing.

“What’re you gonna do?” Heather asks. “I mean, I know what you _should _do, but what’re you actually gonna do?”

“Not sure,” Billy says honestly. “He did say I didn’t have to respond, so I guess I don’t need to.”

“He clearly hopes you will, though. I mean, it’s obvious,” Heather supplies, eyeing him. “And it’s obvious that you want to, even if your stubborn ass won’t admit it.”

“Y’know what I think? I think that it’s nine a.m. and that we should let the people that are waiting outside in,” Billy states, closing the browser and ignoring Heather’s complaints.

Tuesday mornings are always really busy for some reason and today’s no different, so Billy finds himself forgetting about the e-mail until Max and El come in at noon for their shifts.

“Guess what,” Heather says immediately from where she’s straightening the brochures near the front entrance.

“Don’t listen to her,” Billy commands, emerging from the backroom.

Heather plunges on. “He got a message from Cute Drunk Guy,” she declares proudly, like it’s somehow one of her achievements.

Max and El exchange looks. “Wait, seriously?” Max asks suspiciously. “You’re saying that _that guy_ made the first move?”

El holds out her hand as she grins. “Pay up.”

Max groans, slapping a twenty-dollar bill down on El’s palm. “I hate this. I knew I shouldn’t have come in today.”

Billy does not like this entire exchange one bit. “What the hell, shitbirds?”

“They bet on which of you two idiots would send the first message, you or him,” Heather explains. “Seven years later, we have a winner!”

“Yeah, I got that,” Billy responds, “what I don’t get is that _you bet against me, El_? The fuck?”

El shrugs. “I was right, wasn’t I?” she intones smugly, then leaves to go find her nametag.

Billy turns to Heather. “This is all your fault, you’ve corrupted them.”

“Hey, leave me out of this, I did nothing but provide all of the facts,” Heather says, mocking hurt. She holds up a hand as El returns and gives her a high-five.

Max crosses her arms. “Billy, _please_ respond to the guy so I can at least win one of my bets.”

Billy narrows his eyes. “One of?”

“You don’t wanna know,” Heather says as she grabs him by the shoulders and navigates him back behind the register. “Now go help these lovely customers.”

“I’m your boss,” Billy reminds them, “you clowns should be listening to me.” He rings up two teenage girls who are eavesdropping on their conversation with badly hidden delight.

“Julie was the boss, and she would’ve approved of our shenanigans,” Heather tells him before disappearing to check inventory.

Fuck. Billy hates to admit it, but she’s probably right.

\---

Throughout the day, Billy gets three more reminders, one from each of them, to send a message back to Cute Drunk Guy with the Hair.

After they close at 6 p.m., Billy begins the walk back to his apartment but splits off in a different direction halfway through, deciding to visit his mom. He sits down in front of her tombstone and glances up at the sky, a mirage of oranges and reds with a hint of purple, exactly the way she used to like it. She always loved the sunset, and it’s a beautiful one tonight.

“Hey, mom,” Billy starts. Thinks about how much to tell her, if he should ask the burning question that’s threatening to jump out his chest. He was always good with words and people, knew what to say to appease and get along with them, but it’s so much more difficult when he genuinely likes the person. It’s times like this that he wishes she were still around.

“There’s this guy,” he tries again, “the guy I told you about before? I thought I’d forgotten about him, but then yesterday, he randomly contacts me out of the blue, and I have no idea what to do. What do you say to someone you met seven years ago and is probably still living on the other side of the country?”

He pauses, feeling the breeze drift over the field, the grass tickling his ankles, as he manages to piece together a single exchange from that night.

_“New York native, definitely not as cool as people make it out to be.”_

_“Why’s that?”_

_“Too many people that don’t care.”_

_“That’s a shame. They probably just need to get to know you better.”_

Billy takes out his phone, waits until the breeze stills, then opens up his e-mail.

~*~*~*~*~

Billy knows Heather means well when she drags him to the East Coast to get his mind off of the anniversary of the funeral, but he really didn’t think she was planning an entire New York getaway.

“How do you even have money for this?” he asks, staring at the hotel that the taxi drops them off at.

“I have my ways,” Heather wiggles her eyebrows conspiratorially. Billy takes that to mean that she begged her parents, which doesn’t exactly sit right with him. The Holloways have been generous ever since his mom died, having known Billy since his mom rescued Heather from nearly drowning when Heather was ten. After the accident, they had offered to take Billy in until he graduated high school.

He’d declined, politely. One, because Heather’s dad can be kind of an asshole (“I totally get it,” Heather had said when Billy apologized for telling her straight out), and two, because Billy doesn’t like owing anybody anything, even if they don’t necessarily expect anything in return.

Thing is, Billy wasn’t allowed to live by himself until he turned eighteen. And, since he was definitely _not_ going to go crawling back to his shithead of a father after his mom had risked it all and divorced his ass, he knew that being placed in a foster home for the last two years was the only way to go. He figured it would be the most practical, and two years isn’t enough time to get attached, anyway.

Turns out, Joyce Byers is pretty damn difficult to not get attached to. Her oldest, Jonathan, was a little weird at first, but the guy has the same interest in music and stereo systems, so he and Billy have a quiet understanding going on. Will, however, had taken one look at Billy and somehow _knew_ all the baggage that came with him. It made sense, later, when Joyce took Billy aside and explained everything, and Billy’s heart couldn’t help but grow three sizes for this small woman who obviously didn’t make enough to take on a third child but welcomed Billy all the same, foster care salary be damned.

So, after Billy graduates, he has two priorities—there’s the first and only one he’d ever had for a while, to keep his mom’s surf shop open. Then, there’s the second one that took him by surprise, to do right by Joyce. Maybe he won’t see her as often after he moves out, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t appreciate her and everything she’s done, is still doing for him.

Before Heather and Billy left for the airport, Billy had asked Max to keep an eye on the shop for him while he was gone, just to make sure it doesn’t burn down or anything of the sort.

“Leave it to me,” Max had said brightly, a determination that was only matched by his mom’s. It’s honestly a wonder that they aren’t actually related by blood, but Max has been around ever since she introduced herself on the day of the funeral, sobbing _I’m sorry_ and _I’m so sorry_ even though it wasn’t her fault that Billy’s dad married her mom.

The first few months afterward were rough, really rough, but thanks to Heather and Joyce and Max and eventually El, he’s in an alright place. That doesn’t mean Billy doesn’t find himself missing his mom like crazy whenever he sees the ocean, but he’s learning to channel the sadness into improving his own surfing so that he can eventually continue the lessons his mom offered when she was around.

“You know, I hear there’s a really exclusive bar around here. Not because it’s hard to get in, but because it’s so hard to find. It’s literally hidden in a wall somewhere,” Heather says excitedly when they get to their room.

Heather was always a party girl, so Billy’s not surprised she did her research. “We’re not twenty-one,” he reminds her, knowing it’s futile because she whips out two fake IDs on demand.

“You were saying?” she asks as she twirls the cards around.

“I guess you’ve had worse ideas,” he admits, a little curious.

“That’s more like it, I knew you were Julie’s son!” Heather whoops, tucking one of the IDs in his front pocket.

Billy laughs, feeling happiness instead of pain when his mom’s name is mentioned for once.

\---

Heather makes him buy a leather jacket on the way there, saying it’ll “increase his chances with the guys.” Billy thinks it makes him look like a tool, prefers denim by a long shot, but he supposes it doesn’t look half bad.

They put on their best mature vibes when they hand their IDs over to the guard, who just glances at them with a bored look on his face and jerks his thumb toward the door.

“Wow, they really don’t give two shits here. I love it,” Heather declares.

They get drunk almost immediately. There are a lot of really hot guys here. Billy loses sight of Heather when she goes off to mingle with a group of girls (women?) and ends up wandering near the counter, where he hears a loud crash and some yelling. Some girl is picking some asshole off the ground, and Billy scoffs. What a dickhead. He grabs another beer, finds the bar to be a little stuffy, and heads outside.

~*~*~*~*~

It’s been two days. Well, closer to a day and a half, but Steve feels indulgent so he rounds up. Two whole days, and nada. Zip. Steve tells himself that it doesn’t matter, the guy is probably just busy, or maybe Steve scared him off, or maybe he really did delete the e-mail like Steve told him he could. God, why the fuck did he type that?

Whatever the case, Steve is distracted in every single meeting he has on his itinerary, checking his phone every five seconds and deeply annoying his father and all of the investors at the table.

“Something you want to share, son?” his father asks tersely at one point.

“No, sir, sorry.”

“Then I suggest you be quiet and pay attention, perhaps you’ll learn something.”

“Yes, sir.”

He learns nothing.

Maybe he made a typo in the e-mail address, Steve realizes as the meeting is adjourned. Or, what if the e-mail was discontinued, what if the guy was in jail, shit, what if the incident never actually happened and Steve made up all of this in his brain? He wouldn’t put eighteen-year-old-drunk-Steve past it. Actually, the message had been successfully sent, so some poor schmuck who owns the address for real probably read the e-mail and was too nice to bother responding, telling Steve to fuck off.

Steve was already stressed out after he sent the message on Monday, and now he’s been having heart palpitations all Tuesday, unable to concentrate and making exactly zero progress on the plans for the new store. He still hasn’t received any new messages by the time he packs up to head home around 7 p.m.

_WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME,_ he complains to Robin as he walks out, careful to not run into the revolving doors.

> **ROBIN ALWAYS RIGHT 7:16 p.m.:** because you didn’t tell me about any of it and this is karma for lying to me!

> _Failing to tell you something is not the same thing as lying!_

> **ROBIN ALWAYS RIGHT 7:18 p.m.:** that’s called lying by omission you dork you should know this

Goddammit.

On the subway home (Steve refuses to be driven around by a personal chauffeur no matter how much his father tells him it’ll damage his reputation), he considers his options. Robin has night classes at the local college so he should probably leave her alone for now. He could go out and get drunk, but that’s probably not the best idea considering getting drunk is why he’s in this mess in the first place. Also, the week’s not even halfway over, and regardless of how much he hates his job, he doesn’t hate it enough to do that to himself.

He ends up heading directly back to his apartment. It’s more like a penthouse, really, it’s too big for one person but at least he doesn’t have to live with his parents. Steve plops down on his bed, wrinkling his suit in the process.

Twenty minutes later, he nearly drifts asleep, so he gets up and orders a pizza. After Steve sends the delivery guy on his way with a tip, he changes out of his work clothes and opens up Skype.

“Hey, Nance,” he greets when Nancy accepts his call.

“Is this for work or for pleasure?” she teases. “If it’s for pleasure, I’ll have to change into something sexier.”

“Ha, ha, very funny, nobody’s around so let’s drop the act,” Steve says, grinning despite how tired he feels.

Because his parents are from the fucking Middle Ages, they’ve set him up on an arranged marriage with Nancy, the daughter of their business partners who own Wheeler Tourism Agency. It’s been set in stone, practically since before they were born, because their families have known each other for over a century. Something about “tradition.”

Steve likes Nancy fine, but it took some time for both of them to realize that they don’t _love_ love each other, and that just because they were forced together doesn’t mean they should have an obligation to go through with it. They actually understand each other pretty well, Steve would do anything for Nancy and she feels like his honorary sister, but they just don’t fit together like life partners should.

Not that Steve would ever tell his parents.

“Love you too,” Nancy responds with a soft smile. “So, what’s up? You okay?”

She was always the perceptive one. “I’m okay,” Steve answers, “got a lot on my mind.”

“Want to talk about it?” Nancy asks. Her eyes narrow just a fraction, her lips stretched into a thin line. “Did something happen?” The way she transitions from sweet to vengeful is downright frightening, and no matter how long Steve has known her, he is never prepared for it.

“No, no, nothing happened,” he promises. Nancy relaxes, smile back on her face.

“Just need your advice,” Steve continues. “I think.”

“Advice?” Nancy raises her eyebrows skeptically. “On…?”

“I don’t know, actually.”

“Come on, talk to me.” Nancy shifts in her seat, leaning forward and giving Steve one-hundred percent of her attention, never one to do things half-heartedly. This was the girl who hugged him after he came out to her when he turned twenty-one, cry-sobbing _I like guys too_ into her shoulders.

So, Steve tells her about it all, Malibu and Mysterious Leather Jacket Guy and the night he met him, the e-mail and feeling more nervous about it than he’s ever felt about anything else in his life, including the times he came out to her or told his father that he failed a class at boarding school.

“I really don’t want to fuck it up, but I may already have,” Steve finishes nearly two hours later, out-of-breath. It’s only then that he finally hears a ding. He glances down at his phone.

“I don’t think you’ve fucked it up,” Nancy says knowingly when Steve looks back up at her with wide eyes. “Looks like you have your answer.”

“Thanks, Nance.” He must’ve done something right in his past life, because he doesn’t deserve this kindness.

“Go on, see what he has to say,” Nancy urges, eyes twinkling. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Night,” Steve waves, ending the call. He stares at his own reflection in the computer screen and takes in his slightly disheveled look, hair sticking up everywhere from fiddling with it while he was pouring his heart out.

Reaching for a slice of cold pizza, Steve rolls his chair back over to the bed, wipes his hands on a napkin when he’s done eating and props himself up on a pillow. He takes a deep breath, grabs his phone, then opens the message.

**Re: Hey**

sevenfeethigh <sevenfeethigh@gmail.com> to me:

_I remember you. In a good way, if it makes you feel better. Says a lot considering I was definitely drunk as well. I never remember anything if I’m drunk, so you must’ve made a hell of an impression._

_Sorry to hear about your shitty Monday. I’m not a fan of Mondays either, but I hate Tuesdays even more. It’s not the halfway point of the week and it’s too early to look forward to the weekend. I don’t mind today, though. Thanks for the message—gave me a lot to think about._

💪

_P.S. – You should know that a bet was made by some shitbirds in my life on which one of us would send the first message. You won, so feel good about that._

Steve hides his face in the pillow, all the tiredness gone from his bones. Who the fuck signs off with a bicep emoji? Shit. Steve’s in so much trouble.

Before his newfound energy disappears, Steve books a flight to Malibu and starts searching for a place to stay during his overseeing of the new store, humming off-key the entire time. Suddenly, Tuesday is his new favorite day of the week.

~*~*~*~*~

Sometime between his second and third drink of the night, Steve ends up outside of the bar, unsure as to how he got there. He had been looking for Robin, accidentally becoming separated from her when she went to the bathroom. The guard from before isn’t around, so Steve wonders blearily if he might’ve fallen through some sort of back entrance or a window. He’s at that stage where he’s not drunk enough to justify blacking out again but also too drunk to really register everything that’s happening to him.

He sits down on the steps, or maybe it’s some sort of bench, and leans back against the brick walls, head buzzing pleasantly. Something stirs in the darkness in front of him and he squints, trying to make out the form of the thing.

“’llo?” he slurs. Steve clears his throat. “Hello?”

There’s a rustle, then a snap of a twig, then some thumps that sound like footsteps.

“Heather?” a voice asks. Steve thinks it’s a guy, but he can’t be sure because they all sound the same when he’s drunk.

“No, um,” Steve answers. “Not Heather.”

“Oh.” The voice sounds disappointed. “Okay, bye.”

“Wait!” Steve yells, then cringes. “Wait, uh, want to sit?” He scoots over on the steps (or the bench, whichever it is) to make room for the voice.

There’s a really long silence before the voice responds. “Sure.”

Steve feels a heavy presence next to him, a waft of cologne and booze muffling his senses. He crinkles his nose. “Dude, if I knew you smelled like this I wouldn’t’ve offered.”

“You say that to everyone you meet for the first time?” the voice asks, “or just the hot ones?”

Did this asshole just call himself hot? Steve leans in to take a closer look, getting a glimpse of golden hair and blue eyes. That jawline, though, is what really gets his attention. If Steve could see clearer, he’d probably agree that this guy’s his type.

“You’re alright,” Steve allows. “But that jacket’s a disaster.”

~*~*~*~*~

Billy goes to sleep immediately after arriving home, so he doesn’t see the notification for Cute Drunk Guy with the Hair’s new message until he’s getting ready for his early morning jog on Wednesday. He puts in his earbuds and heads down his usual one-mile course, rewarding himself with a break halfway through.

**Re: Re: Hey**

homerunking <homerunking@outlook.com> to me:

_Well, thank god for my irresistible charm. Whoever bet against you clearly put their faith in the right person._

Billy grins. What a smartass.

_Joking aside, despite what I said before, I’m glad to hear from you. My phone’s been acting up because of all the times I’ve unlocked it during the past thirty hours. When it finally bites the dust, I’ll pick the most expensive model released and bill you for it. In the meantime, I hope we can keep this up? Maybe we can continue sharing things we hate. They say it’s good to find someone who shares your interests, after all._

_I’ll start: I hate classical music, especially the kind that they play at fancy dinner parties._

x

Billy leans his head back on the park bench he’s been sitting on. Fancy dinner parties? This guy definitely comes from money despite his joke about the bill. Usually, this would set off a red flag and cause Billy to cease all contact, but he can’t find it in himself to do that this time. Besides, sharing things they hate? What are they, in grade school? He can’t believe he’s about to indulge Cute Drunk Guy in this bullshit, but it’s so endearing, he can’t help it.

He dashes off a response, puts his phone back in his pocket, and finishes his jog in a happier mood than before.

\---

When he arrives at the surf shop, Heather and Max are already there exchanging whispers.

“Should I be worried?” Billy asks, closing the door behind him.

Heather turns on her heels. There’s a wild look in her eyes. “You will not believe what we saw on the way here.”

“It’s…it’s…they’re opening…oh god, I can’t even say it,” Max cries out dramatically.

“Okay,” Billy drawls, “if you two keep this up, I’m banishing you from the store.”

“They’re opening a Harrington Sports a block from here,” Heather rushes out, squeezing Max’s hand as she nods frantically.

“It’s true, everyone can see it a mile away, the sign is so big and ugly,” Max adds, nose scrunching in disgust.

“That’s it?” Billy asks, mood undeterred. “That’s the conspiracy you guys were whispering about earlier?”

They gawk at him. “What is wrong with you?” Heather demands.

“Conglomerates are the worst! The Harringtons own everything!” Max exclaims.

The bell on the front door rings and El walks in. “Hey, did you guys see that they are—”

“Opening a Harrington Sports, yeah, these two drama queens were just telling me about it,” Billy says, gesturing.

“You’re taking this well,” El states, hanging her jacket up.

“Look, shitbirds, in case you’ve forgotten, people here loved my mom, and they love us, alright? They’re not gonna just ditch us for someplace where the employees probably don’t even know that competitive surfing is a real sport,” Billy responds. “Plus, I have it on good authority that we offer awesome surfing lessons, courtesy of yours truly. You think those losers over there even know how to swim?”

“But they _could!_” Max protests.

Heather puts her hands on her hips. “You’re in an awfully good mood this morning. Did you get some last night or something?”

Billy doesn’t bother gracing that question with an answer, heads to the counter instead.

Heather follows him over. “Oh my god, this is about Cute Drunk Guy, isn’t it? You replied.”

“No,” Max says slowly, “you replied and he sent another message _back_.”

“Are you two having an epistolary romance?” Heather shrieks, delighted. “That is so eighteenth century.”

“Jesus, I wonder what happens when I’m _not_ around,” Billy mumbles.

“You’re blushing,” El comments as she begins sweeping the floor.

Billy throws up his hands. “We’re not having an epistolary romance, alright? It’s not an epistolary anything, we’re just friends. You guys have online friends, why can’t I have one?”

“You’re adorable if you think that this is even remotely the same thing,” Heather says, patting his hand.

\---

Billy’s still in a good mood when he takes his lunch break, but if he’s honest, the new Harrington Sports does bother him a bit, so he brings his sandwich with him up the block. He stands there on the edge of the sidewalk, eyes inspecting the four, five-story building that’s in the middle of construction. Max was right about one thing; the temp sign is indeed very big and very ugly.

The place used to be a single-story independent fashion store run by locals, a couple who made a living off of sustainable clothing. Unfortunately, they folded last year after an outlet chain appeared about a ten-minute drive away. 

Billy pops the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth and chews determinedly. He’s not going to let his mom’s legacy die out that easily. He says as much when he returns to the store.

“What is it that you two were always saying? When Mike was being a dickhead to El that one time,” he points.

Max turns to El. “Give him a taste of his own medicine?” they suggest.

“That’s exactly what we’ll do when those clowns open,” Billy declares, “if they pick a fight with us, we’ll give ’em one right back.”

~*~*~*~*~

Billy was simply breathing in the night air, listening to the hum of the bar crowd and minding his own business when some dickwad stumbles into his sanctuary and breaks the peace. Then, the guy decides to insult not just his cologne but also his jacket. The nerve.

Even so, Billy finds himself sitting down next to the guy—he thinks they’re about the same level of drunk—and enjoying his company. “Don’t diss the jacket, m’ friend said it’ll score with the guys.”

“Your friend has terrible taste,” the guy says.

“You have terrible taste,” Billy argues back. “You’re not even that cute.”

“Excuse me, asshole, I’m irresistible.” The guy lifts his hand and tries to brush his hair back, but he gets his eye instead. Billy catches a glimpse of something white.

“Wait, you’re that dickhead who fell down in the bar,” Billy says, head at least clear enough for this realization. It was apparently the right thing to say, because the guy flushes beet red, from his face all the way down to his neck. Billy is enthralled.

“It was not my best moment,” the guy says sheepishly, fight gone.

Billy just keeps staring.

~*~*~*~*~

Steve lands in California on a Friday afternoon, gets to his rented apartment three hours later. He’s completely exhausted due to the jet lag, but he musters enough energy to check his personal messages. The past few days have been such a complete clusterfuck, what with making the transition and making sure everything’s in place before he leaves, that Steve’s barely had any time for himself.

**Re: Re: Re: Hey**

sevenfeethigh <sevenfeethigh@gmail.com> to me:

_Can’t say I know much about dinner parties, but don’t knock an entire genre based on a limited repertoire. My mom got fed up with my metal and rock fixation one day and decided to take matters into her own hands. Try Dvořák’s Symphony No. 9, especially the second movement—that was her favorite. _

_What I hate are people who walk their dogs but don’t have the decency to pick up their shit. I have to wash my shoes after every morning jog through the park._

💪

Steve smiles groggily. There’s another message from Dustin, which Steve doesn’t care to deal with right now, so he ignores it and falls asleep with his phone in his hand.

The next morning, he’s jolted awake by a loud ringtone. He answers it on auto-pilot, thinking it’s related to work.

“STEVE!”

Christ. “For fuck’s sake, what time is it, Henderson?”

“It’s eight, which means the shop opens in one hour and my lesson is in two! C’mon, get your ass out of bed, I e-mailed you the location of a nearby café, meet you there.”

Steve blinks as he registers the bleeping tone in his ear. That shithead woke him up and then hung up on him.

When Steve called Dustin to tell him that he’d be in Malibu for the foreseeable future, he’d suggested that they should hang out considering Dustin was only living in the next city over. Dustin took this to mean that they should hang out _immediately_, as in the day after Steve arrives. Something about landing hard-to-book surf lessons and that Steve should come with, because the shop that offers them gets incredibly great reviews and everyone swears by them.

Steve had done a quick search, knows that the shop is run by the previous owner’s son and a rather eclectic group of employees. He was hesitant to tag along because the shop is technically their competition and the new Harrington Sports is going to completely trample all over them.

But, as long as he hides his identity, it should be fine, right? Besides, it’s not like he really has a say in the matter when Dustin is involved. Steve had tried telling Dustin to bring his roommate with him instead if he wanted company, but Dustin just said that Lucas was on tour for his band, so it “clearly wasn’t an option, duh.”

Steve rolls out of bed, rummages through his luggage for a decent-looking button-up and throws on a pair of jeans. It’s really nice not having to wear a suit.

He arrives at the café around 8:20 a.m., the commute being faster than he expected. Of course, Dustin is already there, who waves upon seeing Steve.

“Hey, man! Been awhile!”

“Been awhile,” Steve agrees. They’ve kept in contact ever since meeting at a youth’s baseball camp, Steve being the mentor to Dustin’s mentee, but this is the first time they’ve seen each other in person for nearly a decade. Steve is still taller, but Dustin’s definitely grown. What hasn’t changed is Dustin’s infectious enthusiasm.

“The omelets here are legendary, you _have_ to try one,” Dustin insists as they head into the café.

Steve looks around at the food on the other customers’ tables. “_Those_ omelets? Those are fucking huge! Aren’t you going surfing later?”

“Yeah, so I gotta stock up on energy,” Dustin says, “how am I gonna impress the ladies otherwise?”

“Ladies? Like Nance?”

“Dude, catch up, I’m over Nance.”

“Really. After you begged me for ‘wooing tips’ only a few months ago?” Steve teases. “Henderson, cut the bullshit.”

“Not my fault you don’t wanna believe me.”

“Are you two gonna order something?” the girl at the counter asks unimpressively, “if not, can you please take this outside?”

\---

They (barely) finish their omelets and arrive at the surf shop at nine on the dot. Steve is amazed that there’s already a small-ish crowd gathered out in front. A brunette with a side ponytail comes over to open the door.

“Good morning!” the brunette greets happily. _Heather_, her nametag says.

Steve watches Dustin head to the register, then takes a look around. It’s a really charming space. The decorations and the layout are inviting rather than claustrophobic, unlike the many Harrington Sports that scatter the country. There are lots of photos hanging on the walls. He sees ones with years labeled on them—different surf students from over the years, he supposes.

As his eyes linger over the frames one by one, Steve finds himself stopping at one of a blond woman—she’s very beautiful—and a kid that can’t be more than five or six years old. Looking at this particular photo, Steve feels like he’s been invited home rather than entering someplace new.

“Can I help you?”

Steve jumps. “Oh, no, I’m just, um. Here with someone.” He gestures over to Dustin, who’s now talking to a redhead.

“Oh, my ten o’clock student. Are you his brother?”

Steve turns. He doesn’t expect a guy who’s roughly his height and age, with blond curls falling gently over his forehead and around his neck, to be the face behind the voice. The guy looks familiar, somewhat, like…

Steve looks back at the photo he was staring at earlier.

“That’s me,” the guy says, as if reading his mind. “And that’s my mom, Julie.”

Oh, fuck, he’s the _shop owner_.

The guy senses his alarm, then laughs, holding out his hand. “Billy, I own the store now.”

“Steve,” Steve responds dumbly, arm coming up to meet Billy’s. It’s a reflex that’s been built in from shaking shareholder hands throughout his short career, but Billy’s hands are warmer and softer despite the callouses. He gulps.

“Steve. So? Is he your brother, or?”

“Who? Dustin? No, he’s just a friend, he kinda dragged me here. Not that your store isn’t lovely, it really is, I’m just not a morning person, and I only got to Malibu yesterday, and, uh.” Steve forces himself to shut up.

“Where’d you fly in from?” Billy asks, a hint of amusement in his voice, “not from this time zone, I’m guessing.”

“Definitely not. New York.”

“Hmm. I know someone from New York.” Billy doesn’t offer any other details on the subject, so Steve doesn’t ask.

“Well,” Billy continues, “you’re welcome to come to the beach with us and make sure your friend doesn’t drown.”

“He said you guys have a great reputation so I’m sure if he does drown, it’ll be his fault entirely,” Steve responds, which earns him another short laugh.

\---

It’s a little cloudy when they arrive at the beach. Steve thought there would be other students during the same block, but there’s just Dustin, for some reason. Maybe it’s a weekend special sort of thing? Dustin seems to be having a blast, though, acting like a two-year-old rather than a twenty-year-old.

Steve sits down on a nearby rock and watches Billy handle Dustin like a pro, knowing when to complement and when to push a little harder. Dustin may be smart, but he’s not the greatest athlete if baseball camp is anything to go by, so it’s really impressive seeing him improve so quickly in such a short amount of time. Looks like those reviews weren’t just for show.

As the wind picks up, Steve rereads the last message sent by Mysterious Leather Jacket Guy. It’s a shame that he can’t tell him or Billy who he really is, because he’s been down that path before.

Steve puts in his earbuds and types “dvorak symphony 9 second movement” into YouTube, tapping on the first result that pops up. He spends the rest of Dustin’s lesson staring out into the ocean waves, letting the flutes and oboes flow through him.

~*~*~*~*~

Steve knows what he looks like when he blushes, and it’s not pretty. _Fuck, did everyone see him fall on his ass? _Steve wonders as leather jacket guy gapes at him. The guy probably thinks Steve’s an even bigger douchebag than he already did before.

“Is that the alcohol, or are you normally this red?” the guy asks, resting his palm on Steve’s cheek. The unexpected contact makes Steve blush harder.

“Hmm,” the guy continues, amused, “not just the alcohol.”

Steve is frozen, doesn’t know what to say, and the buzzing in his head isn’t helping. He wants another drink.

“Where’re you from?” Steve blurts out.

The guy is taken aback, but doesn’t move away. “I’m from Malibu. You?”

“New York native, definitely not as cool as people make it out to be.” Steve adds an eye roll for effect.

“Why’s that?”

He stops to think. “Too many people who don’t care,” he answers, his father somehow making his way into his thoughts even when he’s drunk.

“That’s a shame. They probably just need to get to know you better,” the guy says seriously.

Steve’s heart aches.

~*~*~*~*~

Billy watches Dustin and Steve leave the beach, but his eyes are mostly focused on Steve. Something seemed different about him. Billy wouldn’t say Steve looked sad, exactly, but Steve was giving off the aura of someone who wanted to be left alone with his thoughts. Steve had seemed fine earlier in the shop—caught off-guard, which was kind of hilarious, and maybe a little charming, but fine—so Billy’s not sure what happened in the interim.

He’s probably never going to see the guy again, so he supposes there’s no point in dwelling on the matter.

It’s noon, and there’s only one other student to teach later in the afternoon, so Billy texts Heather, letting her know he’s taking care of lunch outside.

\---

Heather usually closes with him, but she left early for a hair appointment, and El clocked out an hour before, so it’s him and Max today. It’s a nice change of pace, because they rarely hang out anymore, just the two of them. Also, it always takes nearly an hour to close when Heather’s the only one helping, because they end up dicking around and complaining about the day’s terrible customers rather than being productive. Max works quietly, but efficiently, and they finish in half the time they typically do.

“I should promote you to Heather’s spot,” Billy tells Max as they bring in the chairs from outside.

“She’s practically the co-owner, so she’d definitely kill you if she heard that,” Max responds, flipping their front sign to _CLOSED_. “You should just give me a pay raise.”

“You’re joking but I’m seriously considering it.”

“Who says I’m joking? I’m gonna hold you to that,” Max says, putting on her sunglasses. “Smell you later.”

Billy watches her skate off, then makes one last round around the shop, picking up the hidden trash and straightening the boards that’ve been bumped askew by the tots that came in with their parents. When he feels ready to leave, he picks up his keys and accidentally drops his phone on the ground in the process. He looks on helplessly as it slides across the floor Max had just swept to perfection and under the shelf with the sunscreen.

After managing to find a flashlight, Billy reaches a hand underneath the shelf and grabs at the phone. It spins around once, and he catches a glimpse of white screen. Fuck, he really hopes it’s not broken.

Two more tries, and Billy finally fishes the phone out. There are some scratches on the back, but nothing seems to be broken otherwise. He’s about to clear the blank screen by restarting the phone, but he stops when he realizes that there’s text as well.

**Re: Re: Re: Re: Hey**

homerunking <homerunking@outlook.com> to me:

_I listened to that piece you recommended in a place I’ve never been before. Somehow, it made me feel more at home here than I’ve ever felt in my entire life in New York. Can you have yearning for a place that you’ve yet to leave?_

_Truthfully, it’s gotten me thinking a lot about what I want in life. For some reason, this person I only met today is making these thoughts stronger. From where I’m standing, he seemed to have his shit together, which is more than I can say for myself._

_Sorry for going all dark on you. I guess that’s something I hate, my tendency to do that sometimes. I swear I’m not like this most of the time._

x

“Uh, what are you doing on the floor?”

Billy turns around, sees Max and nearly drops his phone again. “My phone ran away from me. What’re you doing back?”

“Got to fourth street before realizing I forgot my bag like a dumbass.”

“Try the first shelf behind the register,” Billy says, pointing.

“Awesome,” Max says when she finds it, “would suck if I didn’t have my wallet.” She slings the bag around her shoulders, then directs a confused look at Billy. “Why’re you still on the floor? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, y’know.” He stands up. “Just taking care of things.”

“Okay,” Max repeats, not looking entirely convinced. “Do you need help?”

Billy looks at the message again. “When you came to the funeral,” he says carefully, “how’d you do it?”

“Took the train.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Max grips the bag strap hanging in front of her chest. “Why d’you wanna know?”

“I’m thinking of doing something but I don’t know if I should,” which Billy knows sounds vague as shit and doesn’t actually answer the question. He can tell that Max sees right through him from the way her mouth twists to one side.

“I didn’t wanna regret not going,” Max finally says. “Would’ve hated myself for it.”

“Even though you never met us before and didn’t owe us anything?”

“It’s because I never met you and didn’t owe you anything.”

Billy’s still processing that when Max adds, “It turned out to be the right thing to do, didn’t it? I met El and Heather and I wish I could’ve gotten to know Julie, but at least I got to know you.”

He looks at her, a whole head shorter than he is but somehow standing much taller than he’ll ever be.

“Even if you’re a weirdo who’s insufferable most of the time,” Max tacks on.

“You’re not half bad for someone your age,” Billy says, grinning. “Thanks.”

“Stop sounding like an old man, you’re only four years older than I am,” Max grumbles half-heartedly. “And you’re welcome.”

After she leaves (for real, this time), Billy stares once more at the message on his screen, then makes a decision.

~*~*~*~*~

Billy’s putting himself in dangerous territory, but the guy is so magnetic that Billy can’t help anything that comes out of his own mouth. He doesn’t understand why, the guy’s not even the most attractive person’s he’s met by far, but there’s something about the way the guy transitions from try-hard charm to laying-all-his-cards-out honesty that really draws Billy in. Billy is sure that both are true aspects of the guy, but it’s the mix of the two that really does it for him.

“Not a lot of people try it,” the guy says. “Get to know me better, or whatever.”

Billy thinks the guy is going for nonchalant but he picks up on the sadness and bitterness behind that statement. “Good thing you met me then,” Billy tells him.

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew,” the guy replies, and Billy realizes that half of that sentence is missing.

“Whatever you’re hiding, I doubt it’ll make me less interested,” Billy says, meeting the guy’s honesty with his own.

~*~*~*~*~

Steve double-checks the flight details that Nancy forwarded him, making sure he has the right date and time of her arrival in his calendar. Ever since he told people that he was staying in Malibu, it seems like everyone’s been wanting to hang out. So much for dedicating his time to not fucking up his career.

He’s glad to have the distraction, though, he’d been feeling off ever since that day on the beach. To make matters worse, he ran into a snag when construction had to be halted due to poor weather. It’ll be nice to take his mind off of everything by showing Nancy around the city. Maybe he can get her opinion on the development of the new store.

Of course, all that goes to naught when Nancy asks Steve to take her to Billy’s shop, barely two seconds out of the gate. Apparently, Dustin told her about how “awesome” and “mind-blowing” his experience was and insisted that she go visit.

“It still weirds me out that you and Dustin get along so well, even though you only met because I was Skyping him that one time,” Steve comments.

“Jealous?”

“You know he has a crush on you, right?”

Nancy gives him an unconvinced look.

“Seriously! He told me when he drunk-texted me during his birthday last year!”

“Shouldn’t that be a secret, then? You’re being a terrible friend, Steve,” Nancy scolds good-naturedly. “Yes, I know he _had_ a crush on me. He told me.”

Steve raises his eyebrows.

“Plus,” Nancy continues, “he’s in love with this girl named Suzie now, met during some weird robotics conference, didn’t you know?”

He feels betrayed. Since when did he lose the best friend spot to Nancy? “I still don’t really want to go,” Steve admits.

“Why, is it the crushing guilt of being their competitor? Or is it because you can’t bear to stay in the same space as the hot store owner with the cute freckles and really impressive tan lines for more than five minutes?”

What the hell did Dustin tell her? “Can’t you just go by yourself?” Steve pleads.

“I _could_,” Nancy says slowly, “but remember when I picked you up that one time—I think this was three years ago? You were on the side of the road _stoned_ to next year and you’d somehow lost your shirt and one of your shoes along the way. _And _you thought I was your long-lost twin. _And_ you threw up on me—”

“Okay, okay! Jesus, I’ll take you, please just stop,” Steve interjects. Between her and Dustin and the shit they had on him, he never had a chance of winning.

Nancy smiles triumphantly, tilting her nose up. “Thank you.”

Steve’s palms are really sweaty by the time they arrive in front of the shop. It doesn’t help that they passed the soon-to-be Harrington Sports on the way over, because it just makes him feel even more terrible and self-conscious about this entire ordeal.

“You know why I’m here, I promise I won’t say anything about who we are if that’s what you want,” Nancy says, squeezing his hand.

Steve takes in a deep breath. “I know.”

Nancy nods, then opens the door excitedly, reporter-mode switched on.

\---

Billy doesn’t appear to be here. There’s the brunette—_Heather_, his brain supplies—and the redhead that he saw talking to Dustin last time. Steve begins letting out a sigh of relief, but then remembers that the whole reason they’re here is because Nancy wants to talk to Billy.

“Looking for anything in particular?” Heather comes by, inquiring.

“Is the owner here? Mr. Hargrove?” Nancy asks.

“The lessons aren’t until the afternoon today,” Heather explains, “maybe I can help you figure out when you made your booking?”

“Oh, no thank you, that’s not why I’m here,” Nancy replies, putting her hands up. “I was hoping to talk to the owner about the store itself, like its history.”

At Heather’s skeptical look, Nancy takes out a business card from her pocket. “I run a blog, I’d love to have a chat with all of you, if that’s okay.”

Heather’s expression does a complete 180. “You’re the owner of _The Underdog_?” She looks up, starry-eyed. “I loved your article about the impact of independent artists and musicians on how we view our society, you deserve a Pulitzer for that.”

“Oh,” Nancy flushes, “thank you.”

“Are you here because of that awful Harrington Sports that’s opening a block away?” Heather asks, disgust clear in her voice.

“Um.” Nancy glances at Steve. “Something like that.”

Heather appears to notice him for the first time. “Weren’t you here the other day, with that guy with the curly hair—Dustin?”

“Yes. Yes, I was,” Steve confirms. “And I just came along to make sure she didn’t get lost, so I’ll be on my way now,” he says, willing Nancy to understand his intent. She gives him a _don’t just leave me here_ look.

Heather glances between the two of them. “I mean, if you came together, you can stay, we won’t kick you out or anything.”

“Nope, it’s okay, I’ll just—” Steve turns and bumps into Billy, whose hair is up in a bun this time. It looks good.

“Hi,” Billy greets, “back so soon?” He says it like they’re old friends, have known each other forever, him and Steve.

“Billy, she owns _The Underdog_, she’s gonna write a piece about us!” Heather says, pointing. “You’re writing a piece about us, right?”

“That’s the plan,” Nancy responds.

Billy acknowledges her, then turns back to Steve. “You two work together or something?”

Steve glances at Nancy. “Something like that,” he borrows, leaving it at that. He can see Nancy hiding a smirk in his periphery.

“Guess we should feel honored, if you flew all the way from New York for this?” Billy asks, tilting his neck, and shit, why does he remember that?

“Unrelated event,” Steve says, hoping Billy will drop it.

“So,” Nancy interjects, bless her heart, “why don’t you tell me about what your typical day is like?” She ushers Heather and Billy to the register, leaving Steve by himself in the middle of the store.

“You can wait over there,” the redhead says, speaking for the first time. Steve looks at the chair she’s pointing at, next to the small rack of swim trunks.

He sits in the chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs, then decides to still his fiddling hands by rereading the old e-mails from Mysterious Leather Jacket Guy, completely unprepared for the new one that’s sitting in his inbox.

**Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Hey**

sevenfeethigh <sevenfeethigh@gmail.com> to me:

_You don’t give yourself enough credit. The person you met probably thought the same of you. I don’t think anyone truly has their shit together. I certainly don’t. And those who say they do are lying._

_I think you can miss a place you’ve yet to leave. I felt that the night I was with you. I hate that I didn’t do anything about it for the past seven years, and it’s got me thinking that we should try this again. So, if you’re ever in Malibu, let me know._

💪

This can’t be real. Steve gets up. Wanders aimlessly around the store, looks at all of the photos again and stares at the array of surfboards, big and small, long and short, along the walls. There are so many surfboards.

Steve stares back down at his phone, eyes stuck on _we should try this again_. Just when he was starting to calm down, the door rings open, and suddenly, everything is happening in slow motion.

“El, I’m here, I love you, here’s your lunch!”

No fucking way.

“_Mike?_” Nancy exclaims, dumbfounded.

Mike looks over at the register, confused. “_Nancy?_ How’d you find me? Thought we were meeting later at that…wait, is that _Steve Harrington?_”

Nancy’s mouth gapes open, nothing but squeaks coming out. Steve wants to sink into the ground. This has to be the worst day of his life.

~*~*~*~*~

Steve thinks he must’ve heard wrong, because there’s no way anybody would be into him like _this_. For the first time of the night, he wishes he was more sober. He’s not going to remember anything come tomorrow. Maybe that’s for the best. A one-and-done deal, and then he can go on with his life.

“You mean that?” Steve asks.

Leather jacket guy nods, bumping his head against Steve’s. “I don’t lie.”

“I think,” Steve gets out, gathering his courage, “I think that I should kiss you.”

“If you want.”

Steve puts an arm forward, nearly falls off the steps/bench, he’s still not sure which it is, and aims for the guy’s lips. He doesn’t entirely succeed, lands more on the side of the mouth, but the guy turns to meet him.

“Guess you’re not sick of my cologne anymore,” the guy comments after they part. Distant bells chime, welcoming the new day, and Steve thinks this may be the best moment of his life.

~*~*~*~*~

Billy has no idea what just happened, but he knows one thing: he’s rarely seen someone blush as red or as deeply as Steve did when he stammered out a “sorry” and dragged Nancy out the door.

“Okay,” Max says slowly, “how do you know those two again?”

All eyes turn on Mike, who looks uncomfortable under the attention. “Uh.”

“What’s going on?” El asks, coming out from the breakroom. “Oh, Mike!” She runs up to him and laces her fingers with his, kissing him.

“Hi,” Mike says breathlessly when they separate. “I think my sister was just here.”

A chorus of “Nancy was here?” from El, “Wait, you have a sister?” from Max, and “That was your sister?!” from Heather erupts.

“Yeah. Didn’t expect to see Steve though, it’s been ages, but I guess it makes sense if that new store is opening—” El clamps a hand over Mike’s mouth, cutting Mike off.

“What does that mean?” Heather asks, dread in her voice.

“You’re Mike Wheeler. If that girl was your sister, and her name’s Nancy, then she’s Nancy Wheeler,” Max counts off on her fingers, stating the facts like a detective. “And if she’s Nancy Wheeler, then judging from what you’ve been saying, that guy was probably Steve Harrington. As in, _that_ Steve Harrington. Unless it’s just a coincidence?”

“Oh, fuck,” Heather whispers. “Mike, how come you never told us you were related to the _girl_ who’s marrying _Steve Harrington_?”

“It never came up so I didn’t say anything!” Mike exclaims. “Plus, I thought you guys knew by now and didn’t care! Their pictures are on the internet, it’s not like it’s a secret.”

Heather pulls up Google and types “nancy wheeler and steve harrington” into Images. There’s a whole collection of photos of the two at functions, both posed and candid.

“Damn,” Heather says, scrolling through the pages. “They look so different in person.”

“Well, that does explain a lot,” Max supplies. “I mean, they came together and all, maybe they were checking us out, probably made a date out of it so they can laugh about it later.”

“I can’t believe the champion of underdogs is…_betrothed_ to the son of one of the worst CEOs in the world,” Heather despairs. “Wait, is she even the real owner of the blog? Was all of that fake? This is why you should never meet your idols.”

“Guys, come on, that’s my sister you’re talking about,” Mike complains, “we’re not best buddies but you don’t have to talk about her like that.”

“Still, that’s too bad. I always thought she never revealed her name online because she wanted to stay anonymous, and now I know why,” Heather laments. “The guy was also kinda cute in a dorky sorta way, if you’re into that. Right, Billy?”

“I don’t know why it matters,” Billy says plainly. “C’mon, let’s get back to work.”

The reveal throws the entire team for a loop, and it takes a lot of urging and help from El to return things to normal.

Thinking back on it, Billy wonders if Steve, no, _Harrington_ was so jittery earlier because he was scared that he was going to steal his girl or something—which is ridiculous because Nancy is absolutely not his type, in more ways than one. And thinking even further back, it’s probably why the guy looked so out of it that day he left with Dustin, because he was afraid Billy was going to recognize who he really was and call him on his bullshit.

The more Billy reflects on their interactions, the angrier he gets, which he knows is irrational, Harrington hasn’t even really done anything to him except be courteous, but now Billy’s wondering when Harrington was genuine and when he was playing him. Billy reminds himself of the way Harrington’s eyes followed him when Billy walked to the register with Heather, pushed by Nancy. He doesn’t think Harrington noticed him watching, the guy probably thought he was being discreet, but he wasn’t, and Billy sure as fuck noticed.

Billy throws the mop he was using against the wall, its handle nearly cracking from the force.

\---

“If he ever shows his face again, we’ll kick his ass,” Heather decides as Billy locks the door.

“Not even Steve Harrington is stupid enough to come back after what happened, didn’t he go to some fancy school?” Max ponders thoughtfully.

“We’re not kicking his ass,” Billy says mildly.

Everyone seems to be under the impression that he’s angry because Harrington is indirectly responsible for the new store up the block, which is part of it. What pisses Billy off even more is that he thought he was never going to see the guy again, so he was happy, even a little excited, when Harrington came around a second time, only to have that potential friendship squashed by something so unexpected.

Judging from the way Harrington ran out, the guy definitely harbored some degree of guilt, so at least it was conscious on his side, but even if Billy were to see him again, he’s not sure he would be able to keep his cool. He doesn’t know why he’s being so illogical about this entire thing, it shouldn’t even matter, but all it takes is Harrington’s fucking face and eyes popping up in his mind and the itch in Billy is back.

“We’re not kicking his ass,” Billy repeats, “we’re gonna get food, go home, and we’re gonna sleep it off, forget about all of it,” trying to convince himself.

They’re just about to leave when El pipes up. “Actually, can I talk to you, Billy?”

El had been silent for most of the day, which might’ve been par for the course when she first started working with them, but she’s opened up a lot more since then.

Billy takes in the way she’s standing her ground, determined and not taking any shit. “You guys go on,” he tells Heather and Max, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

After they turn the corner, Billy takes out his keys, getting ready to open the door he’d just locked, when El covers his hand.

“Can we go somewhere else?” she requests.

“Alright,” Billy says as he pockets his keys, following El in the opposite direction of where Heather and Max had gone off to.

\---

“Dad, I’m home,” El greets when she enters the cabin. It’s a one-story beaut in the middle of the woods. Billy knew she lived somewhere like this, but this is the first time he’s been in person.

“Daughter of mine!” a man booms loudly, coming over to hug her and tower completely over her in the process.

“Stop, you’re embarrassing me,” is what El says, but Billy can tell from her smile that she means anything but. She wrestles out of the man’s hold, but keeps an arm linked around him.

“I brought a friend,” El tells the man. “This is Billy.”

The man surveys him, looking him up and down, jovial nature replaced by a hawk-like scrutiny. Billy stands still, feeling like he should offer a hand or introduce himself or something, but thinks he’s missed the right time for that.

“You’re not Mike,” the man finally says. “How do you know my daughter?”

“You know who he is, stop scaring him,” El scolds, pushing at the man’s arm. She looks at Billy, exasperated look plastered on her face. “Ignore him, he’s always like this.”

“I do it out of love,” the man responds, crossing his arms. He offers a hand. “Jim Hopper, you can call me Jim, but only if I decide I like you enough, otherwise it’s Hopper to you.”

Billy is a little overwhelmed. He takes Hopper’s hand, not wanting to be rude. “Nice to meet you, Hopper, I’m Billy. I own the shop that El works at. Your daughter’s great,” he says, thinking that’ll probably win him points.

“You’re right she is,” Hopper says, squeezing his hand tightly. “But that’s not enough to put things in your favor, son.”

“Dad, _stop_, oh my god.” El unlinks their hands and takes Billy’s, leading him away to her room. “We’ll talk somewhere else.”

“We’ll have a chat later, too!” Hopper yells after him as El closes the door.

“Sorry, you should’ve seen the way he acted when Mike started coming over,” El says, turning to Billy. “It’s a mess, but you can sit anywhere.”

Billy’s heard the horror stories from Mike; it’s a wonder that the kid is even still around, and Billy decides then that he has to reevaluate his perception of Mike. Maybe the kid’s tougher than he looks. Billy takes a seat on the floor, where there aren’t any clothes or comics scattered.

El sits down in front of him, pushing aside a make-up set. “Max has been teaching me,” she explains.

“I was wondering why you started wearing so much lipstick and foundation,” Billy says, knowing Max loves this stuff despite the tomboy in her.

“It’s really hard,” El giggles, “I always put on too much or too little, or I get my chin instead. Mike always says it looks good so it doesn’t help.”

“That’s nice of him.” Billy thinks that Mike would say that about anything El decides to try on, the kid is so gone for her, but it’s honestly kind of adorable watching their innocent courtship. Not that he’d ever tell them that, the two are nauseating enough.

“I don’t think you brought me here to talk about Mike, though,” Billy says, because El is nothing if not a little predictable at times.

She nods seriously. “I didn’t mean to hide anything, it wasn’t my secret to tell.”

Billy stops her. “El, I’m not mad at you, that’d be ridiculous.”

“You are mad, though. Can I ask why?”

Always direct to the point; it’s what Billy liked instantly about her when she came for an interview.

“I don’t like it when I think I know a person, and it turns out they’re something else entirely,” he decides on.

“I understand,” El says. “But I don’t understand why you are still angry. You know who he is, now, and he’s not a bad person.” Billy notices the way she pointedly says _who he is_ instead of _who they are_.

“I haven’t seen enough of him to decide that for myself,” Billy answers, knowing he’s being stubborn.

El catches him on his bullshit, because she tilts her head, and that’s what she does when she believes someone is lying to her.

“If that’s true, then why would you think you know him well enough to decide that he’s not what you expected him to be?” El inquires, pushing. “Max told me you only saw him once before. It makes no sense.”

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” Billy admits, “but sometimes that’s just how it is.”

He can tell El still has so many questions, so he adds, “I won’t stay mad forever, I just need some time.”

She nods, seemingly satisfied for now. “Okay.”

\---

Before Billy leaves the cabin, Hopper pulls him aside.

“Listen, son, I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but El told me you had, a, uh…_questionable_ parent, to put it nicely, and I’m not prying, would never pry unless you wanted to tell me, but trust me, I know what that’s like. Been there myself, seen it myself, with others and with El, you know, from before she…anyway, from the little I know about you, you seem to be lucky to at least have a mom who loved you, and a good foster home. Not to say that cancels out the shit from before, because it doesn’t, I understand that. But, uh, this person El says you met, it seems he doesn’t have it quite so well, so, you know, you don’t need me to tell you this, but it’s not always the same situation, not always the same for everyone. Sorry, don’t mean to be patronizing, feel free to tell me to can it if I am, ‘s not my intention, just, it really grinds my gears when I hear about stuff like this, so. You know. Just think about it,” Hopper finishes awkwardly, head down and hands clasped behind his back.

Billy stares at him, taking the time to contemplate everything he just said, and more. “Yes, Hopper, sir. Thank you.”

“Jim,” Hopper corrects. “You can call me Jim. I’m here for you anytime.”

“Alright,” Billy replies, grateful. “Thank you, Jim.”

~*~*~*~*~

Billy tastes the mixture of alcohol between their lips as he kisses the guy, careful not to bump the guy’s temple wound. Billy’s pretty proud of his motor capabilities right now, thinks he deserves some sort of award for his tactfulness.

When the guy leans back, Billy takes a look at his blown-out pupils and is certain he has the same look himself. “Guess you’re not sick of my cologne anymore,” Billy says, smiling.

“Still sick of it,” the guy says, “but I don’t mind it.”

Billy always falls for the smartasses, drunk or sober. “Y’know, I never got your name,” he states.

“Does it matter what my name is?”

Billy surveys the guy, the way he looks with his red lips and unkempt hair, his vulnerability and hint of self-loathing that are hidden behind a façade of perfection. “No. Not really.”

~*~*~*~*~

Ever since The Mike Incident, Steve’s been avoiding the surf shop _and_ the beach _and_ the café with the really good omelets like crazy, just in case he bumps into Billy or Heather or any of the other employees. He tries to do the majority of his work remotely, taking care of any issues either by phone or from his laptop at home, but there are times when he has to be on site because some of their dumbass workers can’t seem to problem-solve by themselves. He supposes he can’t blame them, because he’s the one who gathered this team, and he can’t fire them because it’s not their fault that he’s in this mess. Nancy had tried comforting him before she returned to New York, bringing apologies from Mike, and Steve accepted them but it honestly didn’t help much.

So, he drowns himself in work, ignoring any personal calls and anyone who tries to drag him out to party. He distinctly ignores Mysterious Leather Jacket Guy’s last e-mail, because he still hasn’t decided how to deal with _that_.

It’s about a month into this routine when Steve returns to his apartment one day, someone else’s luggage sitting by the kitchen island. He picks up the bat that he’s hidden in the shoe closet—a habit from when a robber broke into their house when he was a kid—and tiptoes into the living room, then the bathroom, then down the hallway to his bedroom. The door is ajar, and Steve can hear music playing from his speakers. That’s not his music. The only person he knows of that listens to indie psychedelic techno-rock is…

“_Robin?_” he exclaims, pushing the door completely open.

“Oh, hey,” Robin mumbles, barely acknowledging him. “Nice place, bed’s real comfy.”

Steve drops his bat and walks over, pushing one of Robin’s legs off. “What the fuck, how did you get in?”

“You underestimate my powers. That lock on your door is a joke, you should get a better one.”

“Fine, but _why_ are you here?”

“Well, you’re not gonna be in New York for my birthday this year so I came over to you!” Robin says, palms held toward the sky, like it’s a given.

It was a not a given. They did not plan this. Then again, this _is_ Robin. Steve should have expected it.

“Somehow, this is the least exciting thing that’s happened to me in the past month,” Steve tells her, collapsing onto the bed next to her.

Robin looks down at him, notices the bags under his eyes. “What happened?”

“More than I deserve,” Steve responds, telling her about The Mike Incident.

“Damn,” she says, “that can’t be all, though.”

“Is that not enough?” But he shows her his phone anyway, because it’s pointless hiding it from her.

“_Damn_,” Robin says more seriously, “Mysterious Leather Jacket Guy isn’t fucking around. I like him.”

“Yeah, but meeting him _in person_?” Steve emphasizes. “After what just happened at the shop, I don’t think I can go for more of the same.”

“Well, it’s not like you’ll be total strangers this time, and you won’t know until you try.”

Steve thinks that it was easier when they _were_ total strangers, not this…on-and-off whatever it is that they’re doing. “Can we talk about something else?”

Robin pulls up something on her phone, then shoves it under Steve’s nose. “Let’s talk about you coming with me to this,” she says, eyes widening with excitement.

It’s a black-and-white poster of…something, in a language he doesn’t understand. “Is this another one of those prestigious Oscar-bait foreign movies you like so much?” Steve asks.

Robin slaps his arm. “You are so uncultured. And it’s my birthday, you can’t say no, it’s our _tradition_!”

Steve doesn’t bother telling her that her birthday’s not for another two weeks.

\---

They pick a Saturday afternoon showing and arrive at the theater forty whole minutes early because Robin doesn’t trust them to not sell out.

“I really doubt that’s going to happen,” Steve says on the way over.

“But we gotta make sure we get the _really good_ seats,” Robin explains. “You know that if we sit too close, we can’t read the subtitles and see what’s happening at the same time, but if we sit too far back, we can’t see anything at all.”

“You mean you don’t know every language spoken on this planet already?”

There’s a line at the box office when they get there. Steve is amazed that there is one, gives credit where credit is due, and goes off to buy concessions while Robin gets their tickets. He’s juggling a big tub of popcorn, two sodas, and a churro, which is why he doesn’t see the guy standing next to where the napkins are.

“Shit, sorry, didn’t spill anything on you, did I?” Steve asks.

“No, you’re good,” the guy replies, and he kind of sounds like...

Steve looks around the popcorn tub into familiar blue eyes.

When Billy registers who he is, there’s a brief hint of a smile before his face closes off. “Harrington. Fancy meeting you here.”

Okay, so Steve’s been demoted. Well, two can play at that game.

“It’s a free country, Hargrove.”

“Is it, though?” Billy asks icily.

_How_ is this happening? “Man, chill out, dude, we’re clearly both here to enjoy a day off so why don’t we do that?”

Steve turns around to escape and find Robin, but Robin finds him instead.

“Steve! I made a friend!” she yells, dragging over Heather, who stops and stares.

“Wait, _that_ guy is your friend?” Heather asks Robin.

“Yeah, we’re in row K, seats four and five,” Robin says.

“No way, we’re the same but in row J!” Heather responds, ignoring Steve. “Guess we’ll be neighbors, sorta.”

_Great_, Steve thinks as they line up to enter the auditorium, Heather and Billy in front of them.

“Steve,” Robin whispers, pulling him aside. “Let Heather switch with you.”

He must’ve heard wrong. “What?”

“Let Heather switch with you,” Robin repeats. “This girl loves all the same movies I do, she mourns the deteriorating cinema industry, she’s so funny and sarcastic and _so hot_, I haven’t felt this way in such a long time,” she continues, pleading. “I’ll do anything you ask, even go to the new _Fast and Furious_ movie with you, _please_.”

Steve sighs. Robin never says _please_, always just takes matters into her own hand, so it’s a pretty big fucking deal that she says it now.

“Fine,” he agrees, “but only if they’re okay with it, alright?”

“I love you,” Robin says sincerely, giving him a hug.

When they get into the auditorium, Steve lets Robin handle all of the talking, watches as she explains and gestures and points. Five minutes later, he’s sitting next to Billy, Heather and Robin in front of them.

~*~*~*~*~

“If you won’t tell me your first name,” leather jacket guy asks, “what about your last name?”

That’s…that’s even worse. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Steve says. _Please don’t ask why_, he thinks, his impulse control is already terrible as it is in this state.

The guy looks into his eyes, deep and searching. “Y’know, you could just make something up, I wouldn’t even know,” the guy finally says.

Is the guy mad? Disappointed? Steve really hopes not, but he wouldn’t blame him if he is. Steve doesn’t want to lie, but he can’t give the guy the truth either.

“I’m really sorry,” is all Steve offers, in the end. “I have my reasons.” He prepares himself for the loss of heat that will certainly come when the guy gets up and leaves, but the guy doesn’t go anywhere.

“I’m Billy,” the guy says instead.

~*~*~*~*~

If Billy had known that this was going to happen, he would not have agreed to the movie. Heather had wanted to see it ever since the first trailer dropped, and since Billy loves this stuff too, he saw no reason to not tag along. Fate proved him wrong when Harrington ran into him with a bunch of junk food and ruined his mood. To make matters worse, that girl—Robin?—came over and asked to sit next to Heather, and Heather may love him but she loves meeting new people even more, so now he’s stuck with Harrington.

They’re just going to be sitting in a dark room together. It’ll be two hours, maybe two and a half counting the previews, and they won’t even have to talk. It’s fine.

He tells himself that, but Harrington keeps fidgeting next to him, the popcorn tub bouncing noisily on his thigh.

“If you hate this so much, why did you agree to switch?” Billy asks, unimpressed.

“I mean, yeah, it kinda sucks, but I love Robin, and she deserves the best,” Harrington says as the previews begin.

Billy wonders if Harrington broke up with Nancy or is two-timing or whatever the fuck it is that rich sons of CEOs do. He knows that’s such a dickhead thought to have, certainly wouldn’t have crossed his mind if it were anyone else, but it hijacks his brain before he can do anything about it. There’s that itch again.

“At least your girlfriend seems to have better taste in the fine arts than you do,” Billy comments, probing.

Harrington responds with a funny look and a scoff, but it’s not mean. “We’re just friends.”

There’s something about the way Harrington says it that makes Billy turn to look at Heather and Robin chatting in front of them, leaning toward each other, Robin twirling her hair in her fingers while Heather fiddles with the extra scrunchies on her wrist. _Ah, so that’s how it is_.

This revelation somehow puts Billy in a better mood, and the two hours feel like nothing at all.

\---

After the movie, Robin invites them along to dinner.

“Your friend okay with that?” Billy asks, glancing at Harrington.

“I think we can all behave ourselves,” Harrington says.

For some reason, Billy had expected something fancy when Robin said _dinner_, like sushi or Italian or some French place with seven-course meals, so he’s a little surprised when they stop at a burger joint. It’s not even one of those prissy, high-end diners that serve “gourmet burgers,” whatever the hell that means, but a true-blue, greasy burger joint.

Unfortunately, all of the booths are taken, so they’re relegated to the bar. Heather and Robin automatically flock together, already holding hands, leaving Billy with Harrington again.

“This is my favorite out of everywhere I’ve tried in Malibu so far,” Harrington says when their food arrives, breaking the silence.

Billy eyes Harrington, the way he has his arms wrapped around himself.

“Thought you’d be more into places with chandeliers and waiters with bow-ties,” Billy tells him.

Harrington uncurls, just a bit. “Nah, not my thing. It’s nice here, a lot more personable than back where I’m from.”

Sounds like a recurring theme; maybe it’s a New Yorker thing. “This place, or Malibu?” Billy asks.

“Both,” Harrington shrugs.

“Y’know, I’ve been going to that theater with my mom and Heather since we were kids,” Billy says, not sure what spurs him to share this, but it feels right. “We also got burgers after, so this reminds me of that.”

Harrington grins, arms down by his side now, shoulders unset. “There’s this place back home, Robin and I’d take turns choosing a movie every week, even though our tastes literally never aligned, we’re like complete opposites.”

Harrington stops there to let out a laugh, like he’s sharing an inside joke. “But we loved sitting through anything, it was us against the world, we could forget about who we’re supposed to be and focus on being who we wanted to be.”

There’s another pause, a longer one this time that Billy doesn’t know how to fill, so he lets Harrington carry on.

“My parents never understood why I liked that theater so much, my father especially, he’s not a fan. He’d always go, ‘It’s always so dirty and the screen quality is terrible, I can’t wait until all of these atrocities are gone!’” Harrington mimics.

Billy watches the way Harrington’s smile divides in half, replaced by something that looks more like a grimace, and Billy doesn’t understand why until Harrington says, “Pretty sure my father single-handedly made me hate living in all of New York, so it was always just me and Robin. Sometimes Nancy, but it’s not the same with her.”

Harrington doesn’t offer anything else after that, turns to his food but doesn’t eat.

Billy thinks about that day with El and her dad, what Jim had said to him. _It’s not always the same for everyone. _

“Maybe we have more in common than I thought,” Billy admits out loud.

At Harrington’s confused look, Billy clarifies, “Not a fan of my dad, either. Grade-A asshole.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Harrington states, holding his beer up. “Sounds like you get along well with your mom, though, can’t entirely relate.”

Billy smiles, chest hurting a little. “Yeah, I miss her a lot.”

“Oh, sorry,” Harrington apologizes, head ducking, “I thought she was still—sorry.”

Harrington’s so upfront about it that Billy can’t even stay angry at him anymore. It all seems kind of pointless, in retrospect. “Thanks.”

“Does this mean we can go back to a first-name basis and cut the last name crap?” Harrington looks hopeful, which is honestly pretty admirable; Billy doesn’t know anyone who wears his heart on his sleeve like the way Harrington is right now.

So, Billy nods, lets the dam break. “Yeah, you’re alright, Steve.”

\---

They exchange phone numbers, which is a little weird, but Heather and Robin were doing it, so it only made sense for all four of them to do it. After they part ways, Billy walks Heather home, staring at Steve Harrington’s name in his contact list the entire time.

“Dude, watch where you’re going,” Heather warns, pulling him out of the way of a light post.

“Can’t believe we’ve called a truce with Steve Harrington,” Billy murmurs, still staring at his phone.

“Looked like more than _that_,” Heather insinuates, “but you do you.”

That makes him look up. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Billy asks, wary.

“Exactly what it sounded like.”

A notification pops up on his phone, distracting him.

“Is that him?” Heather asks, peering at the screen, because she has no sense of personal space.

> **STEVE 9:12 p.m.:** If you still don’t hate me when you wake up tomorrow, want to hang out?

> **STEVE 9:13 p.m.:** Not in the morning, obviously, but later.

> **STEVE 9:13 p.m.:** Or just anytime. Any day. If you want.

Heather grabs his phone, running up the steps to her house.

“Hey!” Billy can see her typing something, which can’t be good, knowing her track record. He manages to steal his phone back before she can send anything.

“Was just trying to help you out,” Heather says when Billy glares at her, deleting her message. _we can meet l8r 2nite, if u get my drift_, which, no.

“This is your house, you should go inside,” Billy tells her, putting his phone in the inner pocket of his jacket, far out of reach.

Heather digs out her keys, puts them in the doorknob, but leaves them hanging there. “You’re no fun, I have no idea why Steve or Cute Drunk Guy puts up with your boring ass.”

In one smooth motion, Heather opens the door, then slams it in Billy’s face to prove her point.

Billy gets some more texts, expecting it to be Steve.

> **HEATHER 9:21 p.m.:** u better say yes to hanging out w steve im just saying!!!

> **HEATHER 9:21 p.m.:** im sure cute drunk guy is nice n all but steve is actually, like, u kno, here

Billy thinks Heather might be a tad biased because she’s suddenly dating Steve Harrington’s best friend, is probably planning double dates in her mind as he stands there, but she does have a point. It’s been three weeks? One month? Since he sent his last e-mail to Cute Drunk Guy without so much as a hello back, so maybe Billy freaked the guy out by asking to meet.

It doesn’t matter, though, because the thing with Cute Drunk Guy is complicated. They have a history. Billy just wants to try being friends with Steve Harrington, which is not complicated, at all. Also, Steve Harrington already has Nancy Wheeler. The situation is completely different.

_you know the docks on the beach, with all the boats? meet you there around 7 tmr night? i'll bring food_, Billy sends.

He’s only just gotten to the bottom of the steps when he receives a reply.

> **STEVE 9:25 p.m.: **Well thanks asshole, now I have to bring something too.

~*~*~*~*~

“I’m Billy,” Billy finds himself saying. He takes in the stunned look on the guy’s face, tempted to kiss it off of him, instead adds, “But you can forget I told you that if it makes you feel better.”

Billy is pushed backwards; he holds out a hand to steady his fall, then finds himself with a lapful of legs and limbs.

“I’m Steve,” the guy says nervously. Billy can see his arms shaking and the tension in his shoulders, doesn’t understand why it was a secret but senses not to push, that some people have things they don’t want others to know.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Billy asks him.

Steve leans in and kisses Billy, the second of the night.

~*~*~*~*~

Now that Steve thinks about it, he really shouldn’t have mentioned anything about bringing food, because one look at his poor, barren refrigerator reminds him that he can’t cook worth shit. He can probably get away with just bringing something store-bought, but he doesn’t want to be that jackass who shows up with minimal effort, even if Billy didn’t actually say anything about cooking himself. His only option now is to consult a friend, but he’s not sure which one would make fun of him the least. Definitely not Robin, but her cooking is somehow even worse than his own anyway, so that’s out. He’d ask Nancy, but she’s back in New York, and bothering her with this seems like a hassle. So, realistically, there’s only one person left.

“Please pick up,” Steve mutters into the receiver.

\---

This was a mistake.

“You’re from New York, aren’t you supposed to be the expert on how to make, oh I dunno, _New York-style cheesecake_?” Dustin emphasizes, watching Steve stir the graham cracker crumbs out of the bowl. There’s sugar and butter everywhere.

“I usually just buy the cake,” Steve grumbles, reaching for another pack of graham crackers.

“I can just make it for you y’know, I really doubt he’s gonna mind,” Dustin offers with what sounds like pity in his voice.

Steve manages to keep all of the ingredients where they’re supposed to be this time, even the eggs. “It’s the principle of the matter, okay? I still have my pride, thanks.”

“Don’t over-mix it!” Dustin warns, raising his voice.

Thirty minutes later, after taking the cake out of the _bain marie_, the cake is safely transferred inside the oven. 

“Congratulations, you’re free for ninety minutes,” Dustin tells Steve as Steve throws the oven mitts on the kitchen counter.

“Why does anyone cook for a living,” Steve mutters, walking over to the living room and collapsing onto the couch. He didn’t think he could find something he hated more than business, but he’s proved himself wrong.

“My man, if you think this even qualifies as cooking, I’ve got news for you,” Dustin says, falling onto the couch next to Steve. “Why’re you trying so hard anyway, it’s not like it’s a date.”

The thing is, the tone that Dustin asks that in clearly indicates that he’s being sarcastic.

“See if I help you with Suzie when the time comes,” Steve warns Dustin, chucking a pillow at him.

“So, it _is_ a date,” Dustin confirms, dodging the pillow. It crashes into the bookshelf behind him.

Steve throws another pillow at Dustin. He hears Dustin say something like, “I drove three hours for this, I deserve to know!” as Dustin gets up and runs away to the bathroom.

\---

Even Nancy is giving him a hard time about it, which, fuck Dustin for telling her, honestly.

_Thought you were better than this, Nance_, Steve texts, which, seriously, she really should be.

> **NANCE 11:21 a.m.:** you don’t know me at all if that’s what you think. :)

> **NANCE 11:21 a.m.:** i’m happy for you though, dustin tells me you’ve seemed happier since moving down to malibu, even with all the drama.

> _Not sure we should be taking Dustin as the qualifier for something like this._

> **NANCE 11:22 a.m.:** sure, but even i could tell you liked billy

> **NANCE 11:22 a.m.:** all i’m saying is that whether it’s him or that other guy you told me about before, your life is better with them in it.

Steve is thrown off by the sudden reminder of Mysterious Leather Jacket Guy, feels guilty because he knows he’s been ignoring him. He told himself it was because he wasn’t ready, before, but now he’s not sure it’s the only reason.

It’s ridiculous, though, it’s not like he was dating Mysterious Leather Jacket Guy in the first place. No reason to feel guilty. About not replying, or for any other reason.

_Thanks, Nance_, he dashes off before he can think any more about it.

\---

Steve is surprised to find that the beach is a little crowded, even at night. He sees the docks easily through the crowd, the lights of the boats illuminating its position in the distance. He makes his way there, gripping the cake in one hand. There, sitting on the edge of the docks, is Billy.

“It’s only 6:40,” Steve tells Billy, sitting down next to him.

“You’re here, aren’t you,” Billy tells him back, which, alright, fair.

Steve notices the tupperware next to Billy, but even with the lights, it’s too dark to make out what’s inside.

“Just pizza,” Billy says when Steve leans over. Billy opens the lid, handing Steve the container.

“It’s cold now, was chillier than I expected today,” Billy explains. “It’s cut up into pieces, hope that doesn’t ruin it.”

Steve stares at the pizza.

“Did I fuck it up?” Billy asks, because Steve is still registering the fact that Billy fucking made _New York-style pizza_.

“I know you hate New York but you can’t possibly hate the pizza,” Billy tries again.

Steve finally remembers to look at Billy, who looks apologetic. Possibly because Steve has completely forgotten how to speak and is leaving the poor guy hanging.

“Somehow, you’ve managed to pick one of the few things I like about New York,” Steve informs Billy after he’s regained his voice, handing over his own container.

~*~*~*~*~

“We should keep in touch,” Steve gets out after breaking the kiss. Before Billy can say anything, Steve adds, “Not in a, like, weird way or anything, and I’m not stupid, I know this is a one-night thing and you live on the other side of the world, but I really like you and it’d be nice to stay friends.”

“Or whatever, I d’nno,” Steve tacks on, embarrassed.

The seconds tick away slowly. He’s still on Billy’s lap. “Say something?” Steve asks, wondering if he’s said something completely off-base.

“Do you say that to everyone you meet for the first time,” Billy echoes, “or just the ones who’ve already fallen for you?”

Steve is speechless. “I—”

~*~*~*~*~

He brought cheesecake. _Steve Harrington_ brought cheesecake, which might be the most unexpectedly delightful thing he’s done in the few weeks Billy’s known him.

“You didn’t have to,” Billy tells Steve, not really meaning it.

“Wasn’t going to have you show me up,” Steve says, because of course this is a competition to him. “Now I feel like a jackass.”

“What? Why?” Billy is distracted by his desire to try the cake, but he doesn’t want to appear that eager or desperate.

“Because,” Steve throws one of his hands up, “you made me something from New York, so I should’ve brought something you’d like.”

It’s honestly kind of hilarious seeing Steve flail about like this, but Billy decides to put him out of his misery. Steve really seems sorry, after all, which is ridiculous, because Billy is enjoying every second of this.

“How do you know I won’t like it if you won’t let me try it?” Billy asks him.

Steve looks at his container in Billy’s hands, says, “I just realized I didn’t bring any forks.”

“Forks are for cowards,” Billy declares, before carving out a lump of the cake with his finger.

\---

The sun has set by the time they finish up both tupperwares.

“Didn’t know you knew how to cook,” Billy comments, relishing the way Steve flushes slightly from that.

“Could’ve been store-bought,” Steve defends.

Cute, but not convincing. Billy allows it anyway. “Right, my bad.”

“Yours was really good, though,” Steve says, “your mom?”

Billy nods, looking out into the ocean. “We didn’t have a lot of money growing up, so we didn’t eat out often, mostly stayed home and cooked.”

Billy thinks about the first time he made his own dish from start to end without any help, a pasta that really wasn’t that difficult to begin with considering the noodles and sauce were all pre-made. Even so, his mom had smiled at him proudly, ate two bowls and told him that he had the makings of a chef.

“She told me that being able to share your cooking with someone you care about is the best feeling in the world,” Billy says.

Steve is quiet, and Billy looks over at him, takes in his wide eyes and open mouth before realizing what he just said, what it had sounded like.

“Is there someone?” Steve asks. Behind that question seems to linger a different question, but Billy can’t really make out what it might be.

“There’s someone, maybe,” Billy answers.

“Oh, that’s great.” Steve sounds surprised, but also a little disappointed, which can’t be right.

Before Billy can make too much out of what’s probably nothing, he says, “Probably seems like small change compared to what you’ve got going on, but yeah, I like him.”

Steve gives him a confused look.

“Nancy?” Billy clarifies.

He thought the mention of Nancy would bring joy, or happiness, or something of the sort to Steve’s face, not the sheepish expression that Steve is wearing right now.

“Right, I never said. Uh, we’re not actually together.”

Billy takes in the way Steve is looking at the water below, hands tightening and untightening at the hem of his shirt.

“You’re serious,” Billy realizes.

“Our parents think we’re together,” Steve is saying with a bitter tone. “It was their idea.”

Billy wonders what it’s like, having to pretend to date someone just to appease the entire world.

“Is there someone else, then?” Billy asks Steve, unsure as to whether he’s asking out of politeness, or whether it’s because he actually wants to know.

Steve nods after a few beats, which makes Billy feel a little funny inside, although he can’t pinpoint exactly why.

“We’ve known each other for a while, but it’s…” Steve trails off, sounding resigned. He turns to Billy, then, a serious look in his eyes. “Feels like I’ve known you for longer.”

Billy stares at Steve, the sound of ocean waves the only indication of time passing. “We met barely two months ago.”

Steve shrugs. “Even so.”

The silence stretches out between them, ebbing and flowing like the tide. It’s nearing 9 p.m., the other beach guests have long gone, and Billy is sure that it’s just Steve, himself, and the moon by the water now.

“I should go,” Steve suddenly says, standing up. He hands Billy the empty pizza container, and takes back his own.

“Right, you have a schedule to follow,” Billy says, nodding.

Steve gives a tight smile, and before Billy can try and change it to something else, Steve is gone.

\---

Billy tosses and turns on his bed, running the entire night over and over in his head. The funny feeling in his stomach comes back every time he imagines Steve in front of him, telling him _feels like I’ve known you for longer_.

He’s really fucking confused. He calls Heather.

“How was your date?” she asks immediately upon picking up.

It wasn’t a date, though it certainly feels like one in retrospect. That’s a dangerous thought, so he shakes it off.

“Shit, I was just joking,” Heather says more seriously, which is how Billy realizes he hasn’t actually said anything to her yet.

He’s about to try responding when a loud beep rings in his ear, taking him completely by surprise.

“Fuck! Sorry, that wasn’t you, I got a notification,” Billy tells Heather, putting her on speakerphone.

“Is it him?” she’s asking, and Billy can tell from her careful tone who she means by _him_.

“No, it’s that guy,” Billy says when he sees an e-mail and not a text, feeling slightly disappointed until he remembers the last e-mail he sent to Cute Drunk Guy, heart pounding as he opens the message. He reads it aloud, knowing Heather will just pester him about it anyway.

**Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Hey**

homerunking <homerunking@outlook.com> to me:

_If I’m honest, I probably would’ve said no back when you sent this. But recently, I’ve been making amends with someone who I thought would hate me forever, so I’m feeling pretty alright and just a bit hopeful. I’ve always hated how I’d back out when it counted the most, so, yeah, let’s do it. I want to meet you again. Name a time and a place, and I’ll be there. I’m only sorry it took me so long to decide._

x

“Holy shit,” Heather says. “Are you gonna do it?”

Billy thinks that if he can become friends—_just _friends, he tells himself—with Steve Harrington, then anything is possible. “Yeah, I’m doing this.”

~*~*~*~*~

Billy takes in Steve’s gawk—there’s really no other word to describe it—and takes pity on him, even if it makes his own heart hurt a little. He always falls too hard, too fast. It’s a bad habit.

“Never mind,” Billy tells him. “You’re right, it’d be nice to stay in touch.”

Steve smiles then, relief painted all over his features, and Billy thinks that the hurt is worth it if it makes Steve look like that.

“Gimme your hand,” Steve says, reaching into his pockets for something. He doesn’t seem to find whatever he’s looking for, though. He looks up.

“Uh, wait just a minute?” Steve stands, nearly falling over, then stumbles back into the bar.

Billy sits there, waiting, wondering if Steve is actually going to come back, or if that was a strategic retreat on his part. It feels cold without him here.

~*~*~*~*~

Steve paces up and down the soon-to-be football cleats section of the store, getting in way more cardio than he usually does. He’s meeting Mysterious Leather Jacket Guy at 6:30 p.m. today at a local bar.

_In honor of the first time we met_, the guy had said in his message.

_Technically the only time we ever met_, Steve had wanted to send back, but ultimately decided against it because he didn’t want to jinx it.

> **ROBIN ALWAYS RIGHT 3:55 p.m.:** i can sense you freaking out from all the way in your apartment stop freaking out

> _Stop texting me you’re distracting me._

> **ROBIN ALWAYS RIGHT 3:57 p.m.:** he’s not gonna cancel on you ok i swear if you’re having any of those thoughts i'm gonna go over there and fight you

> _I know you mean well but this is seriously not helping._

Steve gets three more pings, nearly on top of each other.

> **ROBIN ALWAYS RIGHT 4:00 p.m.:** then tell me what i can do to help

> **ROBIN ALWAYS RIGHT 4:01 p.m.: **it’s the least i can do after heather

> **ROBIN ALWAYS RIGHT 4:01 p.m.:** i just want you to be happy ok

He feels bad taking advantage, but since she offered, there is this one thing…

> _There is this one thing…_

> _You can come with me._

> **ROBIN ALWAYS RIGHT 4:05 p.m.: ** ummmm i don’t think he’s gonna like that???

> _No, I mean, come with me and go inside and find him and tell me what he’s like for me? _

> _Please._

_Please_, Steve thinks. When he doesn’t get a response, he adds:

> _You don’t have to talk to him or anything, just make sure he didn’t turn into a creep since I last saw him or something._

> **ROBIN ALWAYS RIGHT 4:10 p.m.:** he’s NOT gonna be a creep omg in fact if there’s a creep it’s gonna be me because i'm apparently doing this

> **ROBIN ALWAYS RIGHT 4:10 p.m.: **for you

> **ROBIN ALWAYS RIGHT 4:10 p.m.: **because i love you

Steve smiles.

> _Knew I could count on you._

\---

They’re in front of the bar. It’s ten minutes before 6:30 p.m.

“He’s not going to be here this early,” Steve complains.

“_Early_? If we waited any longer you would’ve run away, which would’ve ruined everything,” Robin says, holding his hand firmly.

“I’m not mentally prepared yet!” he whisper-yells, ignoring the curious looks they’re getting from the passersby.

Robin sits him down on the bench outside. “Look. Listen. I know it’s terrifying, opening your heart to someone but being afraid to open too much of it, because you don’t know if they’re gonna like all of you or just the good parts of you that you give them. But, this guy seemed to like you back then, and he clearly likes you enough now to keep in touch, even if it did take _seven fucking years_, and he’s the one who even asked to meet in the first place, so what makes you think he’s gonna back out?”

She deflates a little, eyes sad. “What makes you think he’s not interested?”

She’s right, of course Steve knows she’s right, but, “I don’t know how to be both myself and Steve Harrington and have someone like it all,” he says, refusing to think about that day on the docks with Billy.

“Any fool would be lucky to have you, dingus. Now look alive, because I’m going inside to bag you a man.”

Steve watches Robin open the door and disappear into the void, then begins to wait.

\---

Five minutes pass, then ten. When it reaches fifteen minutes, he’s starting to get a little worried. Did Robin slip and fall unconscious? Did she not find the guy? Worse, did she find him and he’s a total creep after all and she’s still inside thinking of the nicest way to break it to him?

It’s approaching twenty minutes when the bar door opens, bringing Robin out with it. She looks okay, thank god, but there’s a hint of something on her face. Distress? No. Bewilderment? Impossible; Robin is rarely distressed and certainly never bewildered.

Before Steve can say, ask _anything_, she goes, “Uh, so a funny thing happened.”

He knew it. “He didn’t come, did he?”

Robin cuts him off with a wave of hands, “No, no, he’s definitely there, and I actually had a pretty good chat with him about, y’know, stuff.”

“Stuff?” Steve is seriously confused. “Does he have seconds thoughts or something? Did he leave?”

“_No_, okay, nothing like that, just—” Robin pulls on her hair, very clearly bewildered now if it wasn’t clear before. Somehow, seeing Robin like this is doing wonders on his own nerves; his body is surprisingly calm despite the situation. Steve decides to give her a few minutes.

“You know Billy Hargrove?” Robin finally decides on.

_Not_ what he expected her to say. His heart jumps into his throat. “What?”

“You think he’s an okay guy, right? I mean, now that we’ve cleared the air and I’m dating Heather and you guys are ‘hanging out’ or whatever. And you think he’s hot, you never said but he’s totally your type, blond, dreamy eyes, able to fight you one second but also sweep you off your feet the next.”

_What?_ “What? I mean, yeah, it’s great we’re…friends, or at the very least he doesn’t want to kill me anymore, and sure, he’s nice on the eyes, objectively speaking, but…”

Steve stops himself from rambling further, gathering his thoughts. He doesn’t want to, _can’t_ think about Billy right now, because otherwise he’ll just…

He doesn’t know how to put this kindly without betraying himself. “Sorry, who the fuck cares about Billy right now?”

Robin laughs nervously, looks at Steve straight in the eyes. “It’s him.”

“What?” Steve feels like a broken record. “Who’s him?”

“Him, dingus, the guy, Mysterious Leather Jacket Guy, it’s Billy Hargrove.”

~*~*~*~*~

Steve runs into five different people, thinks he catches a glimpse of Robin, before he makes it to the counter, manages to con a pen out of someone, and find his way back to where he left Billy. Just as he’s about to cross the doorway, he pauses, watching Billy’s back heave up and down with his breathing.

_This won’t matter tomorrow._ Steve closes his eyes. _I can just leave right now, he won’t know, nobody will know._

That’s a lie; Steve will know. He might forget, but he’ll still know, deep down, if he ran away, because that’s what he does; runs away.

Steve opens his eyes, steadies himself, and goes outside.

~*~*~*~*~

Heather, Max, even El offer to work longer hours and close today in celebration of the special occasion.

“You have a hot date to score,” Max says, gathering Billy’s things.

“It’d be lame if you were late,” El continues, taking Billy’s things from Max and handing them to Heather.

“Especially if you were late doing something boring like being a responsible boss,” Heather finishes, pushing Billy’s things into Billy’s arms. Billy catches the worried look Heather gives him before it transforms back into a smile, and he ignores it, not wanting to know the reason behind it.

The three of them collectively shove Billy out the door way before their typical closing time, because he needs to go home and change and primp himself up if he wants to be presentable, they tell him. Billy leaves before they come up with something else utterly ridiculous, like force themselves into his apartment to dress him, or, worse, come with him.

He won’t lie, it’d be nice to have the moral support, but he doesn’t want Cute Drunk Guy to show up and think he brought bodyguards or something.

His wardrobe, he realizes when he gets home, is a travesty. He’s a pretty fashionable guy, has some spectacular looks if he says so himself, but he’s been out of the dating game for so long that he’s long gotten rid of anything suitable for first dates. It’s not really a first date in this particular case, but it certainly feels like one. _Kind of like that day on the docks_, his mind supplies, which Billy very firmly shoves aside.

Billy crawls through all three of his drawers, his closet, then looks up at the box shoved on the top shelf, relics from his high school days that he doesn’t exactly want to keep but doesn’t want to throw away, either. When he gets it open, he rummages past his old suit from the funeral, his cap and gown from his graduation, and the miscellaneous button-ups he occasionally wore to part-time job interviews during his first year of high school. He’s not appreciating this impromptu trip down memory lane, decides that he should donate the box after all, when he touches leather. It’s at the very bottom of the box, so he reaches in and yanks it out, scattering his other garments on the floor in the process.

It’s the jacket.

No, he shouldn’t. Billy gathers the suit, cap and gown, button-ups back inside the box, then hesitates on the jacket. Should he? Would it be too pretentious?

He finds a clean plain white t-shirt and some jeans that would match the jacket, then puts them all on, and stands in front of the mirror. It’s not the worst thing he could wear. If anything, Heather would be proud, not that he’d tell her that he’s kept the jacket all these years.

\---

Billy gets to the bar at 6 p.m., which is too early by all accounts but he didn’t trust himself to sit at home with his thoughts. The place is casual but intimate enough for private conversations, has decent music at that perfect volume where you can hear the murmur of the other patrons around you but can’t actually make out what they’re saying unless you’re sitting really closely.

Billy settles in the two-person booth next to the jukebox, the one they decided on so they’d be able to find each other. Then, he orders a beer, and waits.

He’s long finished the bottle, trying to decide if it’s smart to order another one before the guy arrives, when a blur of red and black plaid sits down on the other side.

“Seat’s taken,” he says, looking up to see Robin staring at him.

“I know, can I sit?”

He hasn’t talked to her much outside of the few times she’s come by the store to pick up Heather, but he can tell they’re pretty similar from the way she’s asking for permission but doesn’t actually plan on getting it before doing whatever she wants.

“I’m expecting someone, in,” Billy looks at his phone, “five minutes.”

“Just for a bit,” Robin insists, “I’ll leave when he gets here.”

“Might not be a he,” he tells her.

“Might not,” she agrees, “but I know he is.”

Okay, this cryptic bullshit is getting old. “Do you need help with something? Heather’s not here.”

“Can I ask you one question?” she ploughs on, paying him no attention. “Just one.”

He leans back, crosses his arms. “Fine.”

“What would you do,” she says, pausing for what Billy’s sure is dramatic effect, “if the person you’re meeting tonight doesn’t show?”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“You hesitated.”

She’s sharp. He’s impressed, but still kind of annoyed. Why is she even here? Did she follow him inside? Is this one of Heather’s pranks? “You wouldn’t understand.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“What’s it to you?”

Robin taps her fingers on the table. “I just need to know,” she says. “Please.”

Billy really takes a good look at her this time. He notices her other hand clutching her sleeve, knuckles going white from the tension. Is she nervous? But, she’s not nervous for herself, she’s…

“What’s it to you?” he repeats slowly.

Her knuckles go whiter. “I’ll change my question. What would you do if he does show?”

He’s not prepared for that, and it really cuts deep, because truth be told, even though he’s envisioned how tonight would play out a million times over, he’s only fully considered what he’d do afterward if the guy doesn’t come. It’s the result that makes the most sense. He thinks he might actually pass out, or worse, stay wide awake and talk to the guy if he shows.

“This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” Robin asks softly, waking Billy from his thoughts.

He nods, not knowing why he’s admitting this to her. It’s probably because she kind of reminds him of himself.

Robin smiles, the grip on her sleeve going slack. He watches as the blood returns to her hand.

“Great, that’s all I needed from you.” She gets up, turns, and leaves as quickly as she came.

Billy stares after her, watches her exit the bar and looks at his phone. It’s fifteen minutes past their meeting time. He orders another beer.

\---

Just as the clock ticks ten past seven, Billy drinks the last swig of his third beer, ready to bail and call it quits, telling himself he’s _not_ disappointed, he was prepared for this, when a hand reaches out and steadies him.

“Nice jacket, asshole.”

Billy looks up. “Harrington?” He really fucking hopes this isn’t his eyes playing tricks on him, because that’s the last thing he needs right now.

“Thought we decided to move past that,” Harrington, no, Steve says.

“No, you’re right, guess I’m more drunk than I thought,” Billy tells him, glaring at the empty bottle in his hand. It usually takes more than this to make him feel hazy, but he supposes there were other factors at play tonight.

“Like what?” Steve asks.

Shit, did he say that out loud? “Nothing, was supposed to meet someone, at,” Billy looks at his phone, unable to make out the numbers. “What time is it?”

“It’s 7:10.”

“Okay, then forty minutes ago,” which, fuck, he’s been here for that long?

“What a shitty guy,” Steve comments. “Can I sit?”

“Your friend asked me that when she was here, Heather put you two up to this or something?” Billy asks, not surprised if that were the case, because he may be slightly drunk but he’s not that out of it to recognize the weirdness of the situation.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Steve says, sitting down. “If he doesn’t come, will you see him again?”

Billy is wondering how much to tell him, then decides he has nothing to hide. “Maybe. I’ve only met him once.”

“What’s his name?”

“Don’t remember, was a long time ago.”

“This the guy you told me about that day?”

_That day_. Billy nods. The funny feeling in his stomach is back.

“So, he could be anyone?”

Why is Steve being so persistent? Billy nods again, then corrects himself, shaking his head. “No, I’d know if I saw him again.”

Steve doesn’t respond immediately this time, which makes Billy wonder if he said something wrong. He’s trying to figure it out when Steve says, “How can you be so sure?”

Billy considers this. “We’ve told each other things we haven’t told other people.”

“I’ve told you things I haven’t told other people. About going to the theater back home with Robin, that I only felt like myself when I was with her, that I hate New York because that’s where my father is. That I feel like I’ve known you longer than someone I met years ago.”

Billy looks up. Doesn’t say anything, because he’s not sure what Steve’s getting at.

“It was that first day on the beach, you know.”

Billy doesn’t follow. “I don’t follow.”

“When you were giving Dustin his lesson,” Steve pauses. “I listened to this that day on the beach.”

Billy waits as Steve pulls something up on his phone, wondering what he could possibly want to show him, when some familiar notes start playing. It’s a bit too quiet, he can’t completely make out the melody over the bar chatter, but forty seconds in, he stills, widening his eyes.

“This was—”

“Your mom’s favorite,” Steve says, eyes sad. “I know.”

~*~*~*~*~

Steve finally returns, pen in his hand, and plops down, grabbing one of Billy’s hands. When Steve is done scribbling, he leans back, proud.

Billy brings his hand up in front of his face, inspecting, the leftover tingling sensation doubled by his drunken haze. Steve’s handwriting is pretty awful, probably because Steve is also still drunk.

“It’s my e-mail,” Steve explains. “Um, I’m between phones right now because I lost my old one and my new one hasn’t come in yet, so…”

Billy stares at the writing on his hand. What a fucking dork. Okay. He can go along with this. He grabs the pen from Steve along with one of Steve’s hands, turning his palm up.

“That’s mine,” Billy tells Steve when he’s finished writing.

Steve clenches his hand into a loose fist, smiling. “Awesome. I should, uh, probably go back and find my friend now, I was looking for her earlier.”

“The one who picked your ass up off the ground?” Billy asks.

“Yeah, that one,” Steve nods. “So, see you around?”

“See you around,” Billy confirms.

~*~*~*~*~

Steve watches as disbelief, confusion, then realization settles on Billy’s face. “I don’t want to pretend to know what you’re thinking, because I don’t and you deserve better than that so—”

“Stop,” Billy says, interrupting. He places the empty bottle he was clutching next to his growing collection on the table. “Did you know?”

“What?” Steve asks, taken aback.

“Did you know,” Billy repeats, heat building in his voice, “that it was me?”

Steve stares, then understands. “You mean did I know when I, that day on the docks—god, no, I didn’t, I just found out today.”

He sees another realization dawn on Billy’s face. “Earlier, when Robin—”

“Yeah,” Steve says, eyes shifting away.

The silence draws out, deep and uncomfortable. He doesn’t want to push, gives Billy his space, knows that this would fuck anybody’s mind over. Steve is still trying to wrap his own head around it, trying to reconcile his feelings for Mysterious Leather Jacket Guy with what he can only admit now are his feelings for Billy, knowing that they’re one and the same. Somehow, that makes it both better and worse at the same time.

“You really don’t have your shit together, do you,” he hears Billy say.

Here it comes. Steve looks back at Billy, expecting yelling, shouting, _something_, but is greeted with wild eyes, like Billy just revealed a secret that they both should be in on but Billy’s the only one who really knows.

“You’re seriously delusional if you thought _I_ had my shit together?” Billy continues. “I don’t have jack, I thought I knew who you were, but I don’t even know what’s going on anymore. You come into my store, I find out who you are, and I was angry, but then we put that behind us, then today I find out who you _really_ are, and now I don’t know what to feel, especially after that day on the—”

Billy cuts himself off, instead asks, “How many times are you gonna do this to me?”

Steve sinks with each word Billy says, tells him, “I’m sorry,” because it’s all he can offer at this point, if it’s even worth anything. “Like I said, you deserve better—”

“_No_, stop saying that, that’s not what I meant.” Billy leans forward on the table, curls falling over his forehead like the first time—second time?—Steve met him. “Do you know why I was angry when I found out you were Steve Harrington?”

Steve smiles wryly. “I know why.”

“I don’t think you do. I _know_ you don’t, because if you did, you wouldn’t be trying to avoid my eyes every five seconds since you sat down in front of me.”

“Please look at me, Steve,” Billy adds.

Steve turns when he hears his name, because he’s not sure he’ll get the opportunity to hear it again.

“I was angry because I wanted to get to know you, but it was nearly fucking impossible.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve responds, pissed, “so it’s my fault, huh? That’s what you’re saying. That I have the audacity to care about what others think about me just because I’m a Harrington.”

“That’s what you’re saying,” Billy says. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Same fucking thing.”

“You still don’t understand. It was impossible because you ran out before I could even tell you what I thought, because you assumed that I would care.”

“You do, though, why would we be having this conversation otherwise?” Steve knew this was the only possible end, can’t believe he ever thought otherwise.

“_Because you’re right!_” Billy shouts.

They’re both panting, breathing air in and out like they’re short on it. Steve doesn’t know when their voices got so loud, and he can see other people glancing in their direction.

“That’s why I’m angry,” Billy says, quieter. “That I let it matter, that I’m such a fucking asshole I cared so much about something so stupid and didn’t do anything about it, not until you did something about it first. So, no, you know what? You’re the one who deserves so much more. You were the one who offered the olive branch, and honestly, I was thankful because you did the hard work. You always did the hard work.”

Steve hesitates, not daring himself to hope. “Always?”

“We wouldn’t be here if you didn’t send the first message,” Billy says, giving him a tired, soft smile. “Or if you didn’t talk to me at dinner after the movie, or ask to hang out, or agree to meet. If you want me to put it another way, I’ll tell you that I hate it when you don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Steve searches Billy’s face for a crack, any sign that he might be joking or fucking with him, but if he is, he’s not doing it out of menace. He knows that Billy wouldn’t do that anyway, knows this is just himself projecting what countless other nameless faces have done to him in the past.

“Okay,” Steve acquiesces. “What happens now?”

Billy slides out of the booth, standing up. “I have an idea.”

\---

It’s dark outside, shadows growing long and prominent as Billy leads Steve down a cobbled path.

“Didn’t realize they had roads like this here,” Steve says next to him, looking around. “Should I be worried about where you’re taking me?”

Billy glances at him, watches the way he fidgets. “You’ll see.”

They walk for another fifteen minutes in silence, but it’s a much more bearable one than the one earlier in the bar.

When they finally arrive at the cemetery, Billy allows Steve to follow him inside quietly until he stops, kneeling down when he reaches the right tombstone. “Hi, mom. I’m here with a friend.”

He senses Steve kneel down next to him. Billy waits for Steve to say something, but he doesn’t.

“This guy,” Billy tells his mom, “is quite possibly the most clueless idiot on the planet.”

“Hey—” Steve starts.

“He told me he hated classical music because he only knows the kind they play at dinner parties. You would’ve been so offended by that, don’t worry, I set him straight. May have accidentally broken him a little in the process. He’s honest, honest to a fault. People probably don’t know that about him, I was guilty of that too, and it’s a shame because that’s his best feature.”

Billy turns to look at Steve, who stares back, and continues on.

“He never said so, but he has all this self-doubt, this insecurity. I know whose fault that is, and it’s not his, I hope he knows that. But the asshole who put all these thoughts in his head is missing out on a hell of a lot because he doesn’t know how funny and kind he actually is, or how much he loves his friends and how much they love him back. He likes burger joints, he does right by the people he meets, always puts others before himself, even the ones who are fucking awful to him, and he’s brave, the bravest I’ve ever met. And I like him a lot. That’s why he’s clueless, because he doesn’t realize how brave he is or how much I like him.”

He stops there. Steve is looking at him for a long, long time, just breathing. After a few minutes, Steve finally looks away, attention focused on the tombstone.

“Your son is a force of nature,” Steve says. “He brings a storm with him and I always feel swept up in it, but it’s a calm one, makes me feel peaceful. It’s like he just has to be there and I’ll feel like everything’s alright. He’s so good with his students, kids, people of all ages. Literally every single friend of mine either wanted to meet him or liked him instantly when I introduced them, and it made me feel both proud and jealous. I didn’t really understand why at first, but now I definitely do.”

Billy finds Steve pausing to meet his gaze again, eyes brighter than before.

“He jogs every morning through the park, hates people who don’t pick up after themselves, makes a killer pizza, loved going to the movies with you and Heather, still loves going even now. He never said so, but he places so much responsibility on himself, probably feels that the world’s going to cave in or that you’ll be disappointed in him if he doesn’t keep himself together, thinks that he’ll back out when the going gets tough. I’ve never met you, but I know that you’d be proud of him. That’s why he’s a force of nature, because he can’t be bottled up, and he doesn’t realize how amazing he is or how much I like him back.”

They sit there, moonlight cast across the tombstone and reflecting onto their faces, a soft glow that Billy feels warm under. Thanks to the light, Billy can see the way Steve is still fiddling with his hands, a habit that, Billy finally understands, only comes out when Steve is nervous.

“Y’know, this was where I sent my first response to you,” Billy tells Steve. “I didn’t know what to do so I came to my mom for advice.”

Steve tilts his head forward. “Want to know a secret? I think she gave you pretty good advice.”

There’s the smartass that Billy fell for. Billy seems to have a distant memory from the first time they met of feeling the same thing. He’s not sure if Steve remembers it, if either of them will ever remember more of that night, but he decides it doesn’t matter. None of it matters because, somehow, it’s always been Steve from the very start.

“Let’s try this again,” Billy says, offering his hand. “I’m Billy Hargrove.”

Steve gives him a dazed look, like he can’t believe this is happening. Billy waits patiently for him to catch up. They’ve waited seven years; they can wait just a few minutes more.

Eventually, Steve finally grins, reaches out and takes Billy’s hand, steady. “I’m Steve Harrington.”

\---

_THREE MONTHS LATER_

“Well, there it goes,” Heather says as they watch the temp sign fall off of the newly christened Harrington Sports.

“There it goes,” Billy echoes.

“You sure we can’t still kick his ass?” Max asks. “I mean, being your boyfriend has nothing to do with the fact that he’s still Steve Harrington.”

Billy considers this as he sees Steve heading towards them from across the street. “Doesn’t it, though?”

“Doesn’t what?” Steve asks when he’s within hearing distance.

“Billy’s defending your honor,” Max explains magnanimously. “Gonna be your knight in shining armor, or whatever.”

Steve smiles, says “That’s Billy for you,” which is so embarrassing, the way he declares it without any sarcasm, just upfront and honest like he always is, always has been. Billy can’t help but smile back.

“You two are so gross, I’m going back to the store,” Heather rolls her eyes, but Billy can see her smile as she turns around.

Max follows Heather, shooting a smirk in their direction before she goes, but El stays behind.

“You didn’t stay mad forever,” El says, eyes inquisitive.

“No, I really didn’t,” Billy agrees.

El smiles, squeezes his hand, then leaves.

“What was that?” Steve asks.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Billy tells him.

“Going all mysterious and shit on me now, Hargrove? Thought we were past that.”

Billy likes all of Steve, but if he’s being honest, this is still his favorite part, the smartass who puts up a fight.

“You gonna kiss me or what, asshole?” Steve is saying, the fucker.

Billy leans in, but hesitates, glancing at the Harrington Sports in the distance.

“I don’t care,” Steve tells him, following his gaze. “Not anymore.”

Billy’s about to ask _are you sure_, because nobody just gets over it, just stops caring like that. Billy finds his answer in the way Steve has his arms wrapped around Billy’s waist, hands shaking a little but firm. Right.

“We’ll deal with it together,” Billy promises, following through and meeting Steve halfway.

**Author's Note:**

> Duffers’ canon: Billy’s mom left Billy behind with N*il and Billy grew up miserable
> 
> Me: How about let’s do the opposite of that


End file.
